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CENTENARY EDITION 
VOLUME XIX. 


COUSIN PONS 


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Copyright 1836 hy Hoberts Bros 


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4>cene^ from ^arii^ian Eife 


LA COMEDIE HUMAINE 

OF 

HONORE DE BALZAC 

TRANSLATED BY 

KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY 

COUSIN PONS 

3fllustratrt tig 
LUCIUS ROSSI 


BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 



Copyright y 1886, 1896, 

By Roberts Brothers. 


Copyright, 1913, 

By Little, Brown, and Company. 


All rights reserved. 

^ (p 


PRUfTBD IN THB UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


TO 

DON MICHELE ANGELO CAJETANI, 


PRINCE OP TEANa 



CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAOB 

I. A Glorious Relic of the Empire . . 1 

II. The End of a Grand Prix de Rome . 7 

III. The Two Nut-Crackers 21 

IV. One of the Many Joys of a Collec- 

tor 35 

V. One of the Thousand Affronts a 

Poor Relation has to bear ... 50 

VI. Specimen of Doorkeepers (Male and 

Female) 57 

VII. A Living Edition of the Fable of the 

Two Pigeons 65 

VIII. In which we shall see that Prodigal 
Sons always end by becoming Bank- 
ers AND MiLLIONNAIRES, PROVIDED 
THEY BELONG TO FrANKFORT-ON-THE- 

Main 78 

IX. In which Pons presents to Madame de 
Marville an Article far more pre- 
cious THAN A Fan 93 

X. A German Idea 108 

XI. Pons buried under Gravel .... 123 

XII. “ L’Or est UN Chimere.” — Words by 
Scribe, Music by Meyerbeer, Sce- 
nery BY Remonencq 137 

Xni. Treats of the Occult Sciences . . 151 


viii Contents. 

CHAPTSS PAGB 

XIV. A Character out of Hoffman . . . 165 

XV. The Cackle and Schemes of an Old 

Woman 180 

XVI. Depravity discussed 194 

XVU. The History of all First Appear- 
ances IN Paris 208 

XVIII. A Man of Law 223 

XIX. Fraisier’s Secret Intention .... 237 
XX. Madame Cibot at the Theatre . . . 248 

XXL Fraisier in Flower 267 

XXII. Advice to Old Bachelors 282 

XXIII. In which Schmucke rises to the Throne 

OF God 297 

XXIV. The Craft of a Testator 312 

XXV. The Fictitious Will 327 

XXVI. In which the Woman Sauvage reap- 
pears 341 

XXVII. Death as it is 356 

XXVIH. Schmucke’s Martyrdom continued; 

SHOWING HOW People die in Paris . 371 

XXIX. In WHICH WE SEE THAT WHAT IS CALLED 
COMING INTO Possession of Property 

MAY mean Dispossession 385 

XXX. The Fruits of Fraisier 400 

XXXI. Conclusion 414 


COUSIN PONS 


I. 


A GLORIOUS RELIC OF THE EMPIRE. 

Towards three o’clock of an afternoon in October, 
1844, a man about sixty years old — though most per- 
sons would have thought him older — was passing along 
the Boulevard des Italiens, his nose to the scent as 
it were, his lips pharisaically pursed, like those of a 
merchant who has just concluded a profitable piece of 
business, or a young fellow satisfied with himself as he 
leaves a boudoir. In Paris that is the highest known 
expression of personal satisfaction in man. 

As the old man approached within sight of the vari- 
ous persons who daily sit on chairs along the boulevard 
and enjoy the pleasure of analyzing the passers-by, a 
smile flickered across the faces of one and all, — a smile 
peculiar to the inhabitants of Paris ; meaning many 
things, ironical, sarcastic, or compassionate, though it 
never dawns upon the face of a Parisian, blase as he is 
with sights of every kind, unless drawn forth by some 
great and living curiosity. The clever sajung of a certain 
actor may serve to explain both the archaeological value 
of this worthy man, and the meaning of the smile which 

1 


2 


CouBin Pons, 


ran like an echo from eye to eye along his way. Some 
one asked Hyacinthe, famous for his witticisms, what 
hatter he employed to make his hats, the mere sight of 
which convulsed an audience. ‘ ‘ I don’t have them 
made,” he replied, “ I keep them.” And in like man- 
ner, among the million actors who form the great troop 
of Parisian life, we meet with certain unconscious Hya- 
cinthes who carry on their persons all the absurdities 
of their period, and seem so completel}^ the embodiment 
of an epoch that we are seized with convulsive laughter, 
though perhaps at the very moment we are consumed 
with grief for the treachery of some ex-friend. 

Preserving, as he did with uncompromising fidelity, 
certain details of dress belonging to the fashions of the 
year 1806, this particular passer-by recalled to mind 
the Empire, without being altogether a caricature of it. 
To an observer, a discrimination of this kind renders 
such evocations of the past extremely valuable, though 
this conjunction of trifling things requires the anal3i;ical 
attention with which connoisseurs in the art of lounging 
are gifted : to excite a general laugh the passer-by must 
present fantasticalities that are “ as plain as a pike- 
staff,” to use a common saying, such in fact as actors 
rely upon to insure the success of their entrance upon 
the stage. This withered, dried-up, thin old man wore 
a nut-colored spencer over a greenish coat with white 
metal buttons. A man wearing a spencer in 1844 is, 
we beg you to observe, as remarkable a sight as if 
Napoleon himself had deigned to be resuscitated for 
a couple of hours. 

The spencer was invented, as its name indicates, by 
an English lord, vain, no doubt, of his handsome per- 


Cousin Pons, 


8 


son. Before the peace of Amiens, this Englishman thus 
solved the problem of covering his shoulders without 
burdening his whole body with the weight of that horrible 
box-coat, which in our day has fallen on the backs of 
hackney-coachmen. However, handsome figures being 
always in a minority, the spencer had only a passing 
success in France, despite the fact that it was an Eng- 
lish invention. At sight of a spencer, the men of forty 
to fifty years of age clothed the wearer in their mind’s 
eye with top-boots, kerseymere small-clothes of pistachio- 
green, and fancied themselves once more in the array of 
their youth. Old women recalled their early conquests. 
As to the young people, they merely asked why this 
elderly Alcibiades had cut oflE* the tails of his coat. 
Everything about him was so thoroughly in keeping 
with the spencer that no one could have hesitated to 
ticket him homme- Empire,, just as we call our chairs 
and consoles meuhles- Empire ; though he symbolized 
the Empire only in the eyes of those to whom that mag- 
nificent and gorgeous epoch was known, at least de 
Uisw, for a certain fidelity of memory as to past fashions 
was needful to its perception. The Empire has already 
receded so far that it is not every one who can picture 
to himself its Gallo-grecian reality. 

The hat worn at the back of the head exposed the 
whole forehead with a sort of bravado, by which civilians 
and government oflftcials were just then endeavoring to 
assert themselves against military assumption. It was 
a horrible fourteen-franc silk hat, under whose brim a 
pair of large thick ears had left whitish traces that no 
brushing had been able to eflace. The silk tissue, 
badly stretched as it always is over the stiff frame, was 


4 


Cousin Pons, 


crumpled in several places, and looked as if it had the 
leprosy in spite of the hand which smoothed it daily. 

Beneath the hat, which seemed in danger of falling 
off, expanded one of those ludicrously droll faces such 
as the Chinese alone had the wit to invent for their gro- 
tesque porcelain images. This huge face, perforated 
like a colander till the holes actually produced shadows, 
and furrowed with lines like a Roman mask, defied all 
the laws of anatomy. The eye found no framework to 
rest upon. Where construction required bones, the flesh 
showed only gelatinous levels ; where ordinary features 
exhibit hollows, flabby knobs and protuberances ap- 
peared. This grotesque face, crushed together into 
the shape of a pumpkin, and made forlorn by two gray 
eyes surmounted by a red rim in place of eyelashes, was 
overtopped by a nose like that of Don Quixote, — just 
as a plain is commanded by a solitary rock. Such a 
nose expresses, as Cervantes must have observed, that 
innate tendency for self-devotion to great things which 
degenerates into credulity. The ugliness of this face, 
comical as it was, excited no laughter. The extreme 
melancholy revealed in the pale eyes of the poor man 
struck the minds of scoffers and froze the light jest 
upon their lips. The thought came that here was one 
to whom Nature had denied the power of expressing 
tenderness, except at the cost of being ridiculous or 
revolting to a woman. Frenchmen are dumb before a 
misfortune such as this ; to them the worst of all mis- 
fortunes is the denial of the power to please. 

This man, thus disfigured by Nature, was dressed like 
the paupers of good society, — a condition sometimes 
emulated by the rich. He wore shoes hidden by gaiters 


Cousin Pons. 


5 


made after the fashion of those of the garde imperiale 
which enabled him, no doubt, to wear the shoes a long 
time. The black cloth of his trousers had a rusty 
tinge, and the creases had grown shiny and showed 
white lines, which, together with the old-fashioned cut, 
revealed the age of the garment. The amplitude of 
this nether casing scarcely concealed a leanness de- 
rived more from the man’s constitution than from any 
Pythagorean regime ; for the worthy soul, endowed by 
Nature with a sensual mouth and thick lips, showed 
when he smiled a set of white teeth worthy of a shark. 
The double-breasted waistcoat, crossed like a shawl and 
also of black cloth, with a white vest under it, beneath 
which still further appeared the scarlet edge of a knitted 
doublet, carried you back in memory to the days of the 
five waistcoats of Garat. An enormous white muslin 
cravat, whose portentous tie had been invented by a 
famous Beau to charm the ‘‘ charming women ” of 1809, 
covered so much of his chin that his face seemed to 
plunge into it as into an abyss. A silken cord, braided 
to resemble hair, crossed the shirt and guarded the 
watch from the improbable grasp of a thief. The 
greenish coat, which was remarkabl}^ clean, testified to 
a fashion at least three 3^ears older than that of the 
trousers ; but the black velvet collar and the white 
metal buttons were recent restorations, and showed 
domestic care brought down to minute particulars. 

The habit of tilting the hat on the crown of the head, 
the triple waistcoat, the immense cravat in which the 
chin was buried, the gaiters, the metal buttons on the 
greenish coat, all these signs of imperial fashions har- 
monized with a lingering air of Incroyable affectations ; 


6 


Cousin Pons. 


while something indescribably skimped in the folds, 
something precise and meagre in the general effect, 
savored of David’s studio, and recalled the spindling 
furniture of Jacob. It was easy to recognize at the 
first glance either a man of good breeding now the prey 
of some secret vice, or one of a class of small incomes 
whose expenses are so sharply limited by the narrow- 
ness of their means that a broken pane of glass, a torn 
garment, or the philanthropic nuisance of a charity 
suffices to put an end to their personal enjoyments for 
a month. Had you been there and seen him pass, you 
would have asked yourself why a smile flickered on that 
grotesque face, whose habitual expression must have 
been sad and cold, like that of one struggling in obscu- 
rity to obtain the trivial necessaries of life. But if you 
also noticed the maternal care with which the strange old 
man held something unmistakably precious beneath the 
two left flaps of his double coat, as if to protect it from 
accidental shocks ; and more especially if you observed 
in his manner the busy air which idle people assume 
when they are charged with some commission, — you 
might have guessed that he had found the equivalent of 
a countess’s lap-dog, and was carrying it triumphantl}^, 
with the assiduous gallantry of an homme- Empire^ to the 
charming woman of sixty who had not yet been able to 
renounce the daily visit of her satellite. Paris is the 
onl}’ city in the world where you will meet such sights, 
— sights which make the boulevards a perpetual drama 
played gratis by Frenchmen for the benefit of Art. 


Cousin Pons, 


% 


II. 


THE END OF A GRAND PRIX DE ROME. 

Judging by the general structure of this bony being, 
and in spite of his audacious spencer, you would hardly 
have classed him among Parisian artists, — a clique 
whose privilege, like that of the Gamin de Paris, is to 
rouse the bourgeois imagination into jovial mirth ever 
since the good old word drolatique has been restored 
to honor. The man was, however, a grand prix^ — 
the composer of a prize cantata, crowned at the Insti- 
tute about the time that the Academy of Rome was re- 
established ; in short, he was Monsieur Sylvain Pons, 
author of many well-known songs warbled by our 
mothers ; also of two or three operas performed in 1815 
and 1816, and of other unpublished scores. The worthy 
man was now ending his career as leader of an orches- 
tra in a boulevard theatre ; and he was also — thanks to 
his appearance — music- teacher in several schools for 
young ladies. He had no means beyond his salary and 
the pay for his private lessons. What a fate ! To be 
giving private lessons at his time of life ! How many 
mysteries behind this matter-of-fact and unromantic 
situation ! 

1 The ficole des Beaux-Arts gives as the chief prize in its several de- 
partments three years’ study at its Academy in Rome, now established 
in the Villa Medici. The winner of this benefit is called familiarly a 
“grand prix,’’ or “grand prix de Rome.’’ 


8 


Cousin Pons. 


This last of the spencer-wearers, if we may so desig- 
nate him, carried upon his person something other than 
the S3^mbols of the Empire ; he bore, written upon 
those three waistcoats, a significant lesson. He ex- 
hibited gratis one of the many victims of that baneful 
and disastrous system called Concours^ — a s^’stem 
of competition in educational institutions which has 
ruled in France for over a hundred j'ears without 
beneficial results. This hot-bed for intellect was in- 
vented b}" Poisson de Marignj^, brother of Madame 
de Pompadour, who was appointed director of the 
Beaux- Arts in 1726. We can count upon our fingers 
the men of genius which these laureates of the Academj' 
have supplied to us during the last centuiy. In the 
first place, no administrative or scholastic nurturing 
will take the place of the miraculous opportune chances 
to which the world owes its great men. Among all 
the mysteries of generation this is the most inaccessible 
to our ambitious modern analj^sis. What should we 
think of the Egj’ptians, who thej^ say invented ovens to 
hatch chickens, if they had not immediately given food 
to the brood? And yet that is what France neglects 
to do when she tries to produce artists by the forcing- 
pit of competition. As soon as she has obtained a 
sculptor, a painter, an engraver, a musician, by this 
mechanical contrivance, she troubles herself no more 
about him than a dandy troubles himself about the 
faded fiowers in his button-hole. Thus it happens that 
the true man of talent is Greuze or Watteau, Felicien 
David or Pagnest, Gericault or Decamps, Auber or 
David d’ Angers, Eugene Delacroix or Meissonnier, — 
all men who cared little for the great prizes, and who 


Cousin Pons. 


9 


came up in the open ground under the rays of that 
invisible sun called Vocation. 

Sylvain Pons, sent to Rome by the State to become a 
great musician, brought back a taste for antiquity and 
for the choice things of art. He had grown well versed 
in all those achievements and masterpieces of the hand 
and brain called of late, in popular parlance, bric-a-brac. 
This son of Euterpe returned to Paris in 1810 a rabid 
collector, — the owner of pictures, statuettes, carvings in 
wood and ivory, enamels, porcelains, etc., which in the 
course of his academical stay in Rome swallowed up 
the greater part of his paternal inheritance, nearl}^ as 
much through costs of transportation as from the price 
of their acquisition. He also spent a little fortune de- 
rived from his mother in the same outlays during a 
journey which he made through Italy, after the official 
three years passed in Rome. He wished to visit Venice, 
Milan, Florence, Bologna, Naples, at his leisure ; to abide 
for a time in each city as a dreamer, a philosopher, and 
with the careless ease of an artist who trusts to his tal- 
ents for a livelihood as the courtesan trusts to her beauty. 
Pons was happy throughout this splendid journey, — 
happ3^ as a man of soul and delicacy could ever be whose 
personal ugliness forbade all “ success with women (to 
use the hallowed phrase of 1809), and who found the 
things of life lower than the ideal standard he had cre- 
ated for them in his own mind. He accepted this dis- 
cord between the rhythm of his soul and actual realities, 
however, with his eyes open. The sentiment of the 
beautiful, kept ever pure and vivid in his heart, was no 
doubt the hidden essence of those artless melodies, deli- 
cate and full of grace, which made his musical reputation 


10 


Cousin Pons, 


from 1810 to 1814. All reputations based on vogue 
and fashion and the ephemeral fancies of Paris produce 
such men as Pons. There is no country in the world so 
exacting as France in great matters, or so disdainfully 
indulgent in little ones. If Pons — fated to be drowned 
erelong in floods of German harmony and Rossinian 
opera — was by the year 1824 only an agreeable musi- 
cian, known for a few charming songs, we may fancy 
what he became in 1831 ; so that in 1844, the 3'ear in 
which the solitar}^ drama of his humble life began, 
Sylvain Pons had attained the value, and no other, of 
an antediluvian quaver ; even the music-shops ignored 
his existence, though he composed the scores for certain 
pieces at his own and other theatres for very moderate 
remuneration. 

The worth}^ soul did willing justice to the famous 
composers of the present epoch, — a fine performance of 
their masterpieces made him weep ; but his reverence 
never reached the point of fanaticism, as it did with the 
Kreislers of Hoflinann ; he let no emotion appear upon 
the surface, enjo^ung all within himself like the hashish- 
eaters or the Theriakis. The gift of admiration, 
of comprehension, the one faculty by which a common- 
place man becomes the brother of a great poet, is so rare 
in Paris, where all ideas are treated like the transient 
guests at an inn, that for this alone we ought to give 
Pons our respectful esteem. The fact of his own failure 
to achieve success maj" seem exaggerated ; but in truth 
he honestly admitted his weakness on the score of har- 
mony ; he had neglected the study of counterpoint, and 
modern orchestration, grown utterly beyond his knowl- 
edge, became inscrutable to him at the very moment 


Cousin Pons. 


11 


when by fresh study he should have kept himself to the 
level of modern composers and become, not indeed a 
Rossini, but a Herold. However, he found such lively 
compensation in the joys of a collector for his failure as 
to musical fame, that if he had been forced to choose 
between his treasures and the glory of Rossini, he 
would — can it be believed ? — have decided in favor 
of his beloved bric-k-brac. 

The old musician put into actual practice the maxim 
of Chenavard, that learned collector of precious engrav- 
ings who averred that no one could truly enjoy a Ruys- 
dael, a Hobbema, a Holbein, a Raphael, a Murillo, a 
Greuze, a Sebastian del Piombo, a Giorgione, an Albert 
Diirer, unless the picture cost him no more than fifty 
francs. Pons never allowed himself a purchase over the 
cost of a hundred francs ; and if he paid fifty francs for 
anything, that thing must have had an actual value of 
three thousand. The finest object in the world had no 
existence, so far as he was concerned, if its price was 
three hundred francs. Rare indeed had been his bar- 
gains ; but he possessed the three elements of a collec- 
tor’s success, — the legs of a deer, the time of an idler, 
and the patience of a Jew. 

Such a purpose, pursued for forty years in Italy and 
in Paris, had borne fruit. After spending, since his 
return from Rome, about two thousand francs a year. 
Pons now concealed from every eye a collection of mas- 
terpieces of all kinds, which amounted in his catalogue 
to the astounding number of 1907. From 1811 to 1816, 
in course of his quests about Paris, he had found for ten 
francs things that would sell in the present day for ten 
or twelve hundred, — pictures culled from the forty and 


12 


Cousin Pons, 


one thousand paintings annually offered for sale in the 
auction-rooms of Paris ; Sevres porcelains, pate tendre^ 
bought from the Auvergnats, those satellites of the 
Black-Band, who were gradually bringing back in their 
hand-carts the treasures of France under the Pompadour. 
He had scraped together relics of the seventeenth and 
eighteenth centuries, doing justice to the men of wit 
and genius of the French school, the great unrecognized, 
such as Lepautre, Lavallee-Poussin, and others who cre- 
ated Louis XV. art and the style Louis XVI. , and whose 
works supply to-day the pretended originality of oiu* 
modern artists, who may be seen bending over these 
treasures in the Cabinet des Estampes, attempting to 
make the like, but attaining only to clever imitations. 
Pons owed many of his specimens to exchanges, — that 
source of ineffable happiness to collectors. The pleas- 
ure of buying curios is second only to the superior jo}" of 
bartering them. Pons was the first to collect snuflT-boxes 
and miniatures ; yet, for all this, he had no fame as a 
bric-a-bracologist, for he never haunted auction-rooms, 
and was seldom seen in the chief marts of that business ; 
consequently, he was ignorant of the venal value of his 
treasures. 

The late Du Sommerard, founder of the museum now 
at the Hotel Cluny, endeavored at one time to estab- 
lish relations with the old musician ; but that prince of 
bric-k-brac died without ever penetrating behind the veil 
of Pons’s collection, — the only one, as Du Sommerard 
was well aware, that could be compared to the famous 
cabinet of Sauvageot. There were certain similarities 
between Pons and Sauvageot. The latter, a musician 
without fortune like Pons, followed the same methods 


Cousin Pons^ 


13 


and employed the same means, from the same love of 
art and the same hatred towards these illustrious rich 
people who collect treasures for the purpose of compet- 
ing in the markets with the dealers. Like his rival, his 
antagonist, his competitor in the quest for these marvels 
of handicraft, these prodigies of workmanship. Pons 
nurtured in his heart an insatiable avarice, the love of 
a lover for a beautiful mistress ; and a pubhc sale in 
the halls of the Rue des Jeuneurs under the hammer of 
an auctioneer seemed to him a crime of leze-majesty- 
bric-a-brac. He kept his collection to enjoy it at all 
hours, for souls created to admire great works have 
the glorious faculty of the true lover : they find as much 
enjoyment to-day as they found yesterday; for them 
there is no satiety, and masterpieces happily are ever 
young. Thus the thing he was holding so paternally 
under the tails of his coat was undoubtedly some 
treasure-trove, carried off with an ardor, O amateurs ! 
which you alone can truly know. 

At the first outline of this biographical sketch, every 
one will cry out: “Why, in spite of his ugliness, he 
must be the happiest man on earth ! ” True enough : 
no ennui, no spleen, resists the soothing influence a 
hobby sheds upon the soul. You, who can drink no 
longer from that chalice called through all time the 
“ cup of pleasure,” take up the task of collecting some- 
thing, no matter what (people have ere now collected 
handbills) , and you will recover your ingots of joy in 
small change. A hobby, a mania, is pleasure trans- 
formed into the shape of an idea. Nevertheless, do not 
envy the worthy Pons ; for if you do, your sentiment, 
like others of its kind, will rest on error. 


14 


Cousin Pons, 


This man of innate delicacy, whose soul lived by its 
unwearying admiration for the glories of human toil, 
— that noble struggle with the forces of Nature, — was 
the slave of a capital sin, albeit the one which God will 
punish least severely. Pons was a gourmand. His 
small means and his passion for bric-a-brac condemned 
him to an ascetic diet so abhorrent to his hankering 
appetite, that the old celibate early cut the Gordian 
knot by dining daily among his friends. Far more at- 
tention was paid to people of celebrity under the Empire 
than in our day, possibly because they were fewer in 
number and less political in their pretensions. Men 
were poets, musicians, writers, on such moderate expen- 
diture of talent ! Pons, who was looked upon in those 
days as a probable rival of Nicolo, Paer, Berton, and 
other composers of his time, received so many invita- 
tions that he was forced to enter them in a note-book, 
just as a lawyer is obliged to record his cases. In his 
quality of artist he presented copies of his songs to his 
various hosts, played what was called the “ forte ” in their 
salons, gave them boxes at the Feydeau (the theatre 
to which he belonged), organized their concerts, and even 
played the violin and improvised little dances at the 
houses of his rich relations. Those were the days when 
the handsomest men in France were fighting duels with 
the handsomest men of the Allied Powers ; consequent!}* , 
and in accordance with the great law promulgated by 
Moliere in the famous couplet of Eliante, Pons’s re- 
markable ugliness was considered “ originality.” When 
he had done some service to a beautiful woman, he heard 
her call him a charming man ; but his experience of hap- 
piness never went beyond the hearing of the words. 


Cousin Pons. 


15 


During this period, which lasted about six years (from 
1810 to 1816), Pons contracted the fatal habit of dining 
well, of seeing those with whom he dined living extrav^ 
agantly, procuring delicacies, producing their best wines, 
solicitous about the dessert, the coffee, the liqueurs, and 
giving him of their best, after the lavish fashion of the 
Empire, when many houses imitated the splendor of the 
various kings and queens and princes with which Paris 
then abounded. People played at royalty, just as in 
these days they play at parliament and create crowds of 
“ Societies,” each with its president, vice-president, and 
secretary, — “Societies” for the linen-trade and the 
silk-trade and the wine-trade ; Agricultural Societies, 
Industrial Societies, etc. We have even got so far as to 
seek out social diseases, that we may set up societies of 
healers and reformers. 

A stomach constructed by education, like that of 
Pons, reacts of course upon the moral constitution, and 
corrupts it through the high culinary knowledge thus 
acquired. Sensuality lurking in every fold of the heart 
speaks with sovereign voice, subverts the will, shatters 
the sense of honor, and demands its gratification at any 
price. No one has ever yet depicted the exactions of 
the human Maw ; the}^ escape literary criticism through 
sheer necessity of living. Who knows the number of 
those who are ruined by the table? In this respect, the 
table in Paris rivals the courtesan ; it is, moreover, the 
fuel of which she is the waste. When Pons, falling from 
reputation as an artist, fell also from the condition of 
honored guest to that of a poor relation sponging for a 
dinner on his prosperous friends, he was unable to re- 
sign their well-served tables for the Spartan broth of a 


16 


Cousin Pons, 


forty-sous restaurant. Alas ! he shuddered as he thought 
that his self-respect demanded so great a sacrifice ; he 
knew himself capable of tbe utmost meanness that he 
might still live well, enjoy all the luxuries of the season, 
and (vulgar, but expressive word !) “ gobble down ” deli- 
cious little made dishes. Like a marauding bird, flying 
away with a full crop and warbling a tune by way of 
thanks. Pons had come to feel a certain pleasure in thus 
living at the cost of society, which asked in return — 
what? mere bowing and scraping. Accustomed, like 
all bachelors who hate their own homes and live chiefly 
in other people’s houses, to the formulas and grimaces 
which are made to take the place of real sentiments in 
the social world, he used compliments as he did small 
change ; and in respect to persons he was satisfied to 
take them at their current value, without poking his nose 
inquisitively behind the scenes. 

This not intolerable state of things lasted ten years. 
But what years ! they were like a rainy autumn. Dur- 
ing all that time Pons kept his gratuitous place at table, 
and made himself useful in the houses where he dined. 
He set foot in the fatal path of doing a multiplicitj’ of 
errands, and supplying, again and again, the place of 
porters and servants. Often employed to make pur- 
chases, he became an honorable and innocent spy sent 
by one family into another ; yet no one ever blamed him 
for these incursions, or reproached him for their sneak- 
ing meanness. “Pons is a good fellow, who doesn’t 
know what to do with his time,” they all said ; “ he is 
delighted to trot about for us — what else can he do ? ” 

Soon the chill of old age began to creep about him, 
that keen north wind which penetrates and lowers the 


Cousin Pons. 


17 


moral temperature — above all, if age is poor and ugly. 
Then indeed the old man is trebly old. The winter of 
his life has come, — the winter of wan cheeks, and red- 
dened nose, and numbness of all kinds. 

From 1836 to 1843 Pons was seldom invited as a 
guest. Far from seeking their parasite, each family en- 
dured him as they endured their taxes ; the}" paid no heed 
to him, nor to the real services which he did for them. 
The families among whom he revolved, all of them with- 
out any respect for art, worshipped material results and 
valued none but those which they had gained since 
1830, — that is to say, large fortunes or eminent social 
rank. Now Pons, being without sufficient dignity of 
mind or manners to inspire the awe which talent or 
genius imposes on the bourgeois soul, had ended, natur- 
ally’, by^ becoming less than a cipher, without at the 
same time being altogether despised. Though he suf- 
fered in this world of cruel suffering like all timid beings, 
he bore his troubles silently. He had learned by de- 
grees to repress his feelings, and make his heart a 
sanctuary, into whose solitude he withdrew, — a phe- 
nomenon which superficial persons often explain by the 
word “ selfishness.” The likeness between the solitary 
soul and the egotist is near enough to seem to justify’ 
such cavillers in their judgment of true hearts, — more 
especially^ in Paris, where no one carefully’ observes ; 
where events are rapid as the dash of waters, and all 
things go and come like an administration. 

Thus it happened that Pons was found guilty under 
an indictment of selfishness drawn retrospectively^ 
against him ; for the world always ends by condemn- 
ing those whom it accuses. Do any of us realize how 

2 


18 


Cousin Pons. 


unmerited discredit crushes a timid nature? Who will 
ever truly picture the sorrows of timidity ? Such a situa- 
tion, aggravated more and more and from day to day, 
explains the sadness stamped upon the face of this poor 
musician, whose life was a long succession of servile 
surrenders. But such abject meanness, which all pas- 
sions compel, is a bond in itself, — the more a passion 
exacts, the more it binds us ; and these sacrifices are 
turned by the force of passion into a negative ideal 
treasure, in which men see an actual wealth. After 
enduring the insolent patronizing glance of some rich 
bourgeois, — rich in dulness, — Pons sipped his glass 
of port-wine and ate his quail au gratin as if they were 
a compensating vengeance, saying to himself, “They 
don’t cost me too much.” 

To the eye of a moralist certain extenuating circum- 
stances appear in such a life. A man exists only 
through some species of satisfaction. A being without 
passion, the just man made perfect, is a monster, a 
half-fledged angel : angels in the Catholic mythology 
have nothing but heads. Here below the perfect man 
is the wearisome Grandison, who finds even the Venus 
of the slums without a sex. Barring a few common- 
place adventures during his Italian journey, where the 
climate may have given him a brief success. Pons had 
never won a woman’s smile. Many men have had this 
luckless destin}". Pons was born out of time. His 
parents begot him in their old age, and he bore the 
stigmata of an unseasonable birth in the cadaverous 
tints of his skin, which looked as if they might have 
been contracted in one of those jars of spirits-of-wine 
where abnormal foetuses are usually preserved. This 


Cousin Pons, 


19 


artist-soul, endowed with tenderness, dreamy, delicate, 
and yet forced to accept the character imposed upon 
him by his outward man, despaired of ever being loved. 
Celibacy was with him less a choice than a necessity. 
Gastronomy, the seducer of virtuous monks, opened 
its arms to him ; he rushed into them as he had rushed 
into the worship of works of art and the religion of 
music. Good living and bric-k-brac were to him the 
small change for a woman ; not music, for that was his 
profession, and we may look far before we find a man 
who is fond of the trade by which he lives. In the long 
run a profession is like marriage, we come to feel only 
its annoyances. 

Brillat-Savarin defended the science of good eating 
from conviction ; but perhaps he has not sufficiently in- 
sisted on the real pleasure a man finds at table. Diges- 
tion, which sets to work the forces of the human body, 
produces within the epicure an inward tumult equivalent 
to the highest enjoyments of love. Such a vast develop- 
ment of vital energy is felt, that the brain annuls itself 
in the interests of the secondary brain which exists in 
the diaphragm, and intoxication ensues from the very 
inertia of all the faculties. The boa-constrictors gorged 
with buffalo are found so drunk that they will let them- 
selves be killed. Is there a man over forty who dares 
to go to work after dinner? And for this reason all 
great men are sober. Convalescents recovering from 
serious illness, to whom nourishment is carefully doled 
out, have often observed a species of gastric inebria- 
tion produced b}^ a single chicken-wing. The virtuous 
Pons, whose enjoyments were concentrated in the me- 
chanism of his stomach, was often in the condition 


20 


Cousin Pons. 


of such convalescents: he exacted from good living 
all the sensations it was capable of bestowing ; and so 
far he had obtained them daily. No one dares bid 
farewell to a fixed habit. Many a suicide has stopped 
short on the threshold of death, as he remembered the 
caf4 where he played his nightly game of dominos. 


Couiin Pons. 


21 


III. 

THE TWO NUT-CRACKERS. 

In 1835 mere chance avenged Pons for the indiffer- 
ence of the fair sex, and gave him what is familiarly 
called a staff of old age. The old man, old from his 
birth, found in friendship his prop of life ; he contracted 
the only marriage society allowed him to make ; he 
espoused a man, an old man, — a musician, like him- 
self. Were it not for La Fontaine’s divine fable, this 
sketch might have been called “ The Two Friends ; ” 
but to take that name now would surely be a literary 
outrage, — a profanation, before which all true writers 
must recoil. That masterpiece of our fable-maker, at 
once the history of his dreams and the disclosure of his 
own soul, has an eternal right of conquest to its title. 
The page on which the poet wrote those words, “ The 
Two Friends,” is sacred property, — a temple, which 
each generation enters respectfully ; where the world 
will come to pay its homage so long as the art of print- 
ing endures. 

The friend of Sylvain Pons was a music-teacher, 
whose life and whose inclinations sympathized so well 
with his own that he said he knew him too late for hap- 
piness : their acquaintance, begun at the distribution 
of prizes in a private school, dated only from 1834. 
Perhaps no two souls ever so resembled each other 


22 


Cousin Pons, 


in that ocean of human life which took its rise, against 
the will of God, in this terrestrial paradise. The two 
musicians became in a short time a necessity for one 
another. In a week they were brothers ; and at last 
Schmucke no more realized the existence of a Pons 
than Pons was aware of the existence of a Schmucke. 
This alone suffices to depict these worthy souls ; but as 
all minds do not equally enjoy the brevity of synthesis, 
a slight elucidation becomes necessary for the benefit 
of the incredulous. 

This pianist, like all pianists, was a German, — Ger- 
man, like the great Liszt and the great Mendelssohn ; 
German like Steibelt, Mozart, and Dusseck ; German 
like Dohler and Thalberg, Dreyschok and Hiller ; like 
Leopold Meyer, like Crammer ; like Zimmermann, Kalk- 
brenner, Herz, Woetz, Karr, Edouard Wolff, Pixis, Clara 
Wieck, — in short, all Germans. Though a natural com- 
poser, Schmucke could only point the way and in- 
struct others, so lacking was he in that native audacity 
which is necessar}^ to the man of genius who seeks to 
manifest himself by music. The simple naivete of many 
Germans does not last into middle-life ; it stops short ; 
what remains to them after a certain age is taken, as 
one takes the water of a canal, from the springs of 
their youth ; and they use it to fertilize and foster their 
success in various ways — in science, in art, in fortune: 
— by the power it gives them to escape distrust. In 
France, subtle people sometimes substitute for such 
Teutonic innocence the stolidity of the Parisian grocer. 
But Schmucke had kept his childlike simplicity, just as. 
Pons carried on his person, unawares, the relics of the 
Empire. This genuine and noble German was, as it 


Cousin Pons. 


25 


were, both play and audience ; he made his music for 
his own soul. He lived in Paris twenty years as a 
nightingale lives in its forest, alone of its species, sing- 
ing in solitude, until the moment when, meeting Pons, 
he met his other self. (See “ Une Fille d’Eve.”) 

Pons and Schmucke had each, one as much as the 
other, in his heart and in his character, those childlike 
sentimentalities which distinguish all Germans, — such, 
for instance, as a passion for flowers, and the worship 
of all natural effects, whereby they are led to plant a 
tangle of shrubs and vines in their gardens, to see in 
miniature the landscape which extends before their 
eyes ; or that strong inclination for discovery which 
carries a German savant three hundred miles in his 
gaiters, to find a fact which stares him in the face as 
he sits at the edge of his well under the jessamine in 
his courtyard ; or, in short, that innate impulse to 
attribute psychical significance to the trifles of creation 
which inspired the inexplicable works of Jean Paul 
Richter, the printed inebriations of Hoffmann, and the 
fortifications of folio which Germany throws up around 
the simplest question, into which they burrow till it be- 
comes an abyss, at the bottom of which there is nothing 
to be seen but one German. Both were Catholics ; 
together they went to Mass, and fulfilled their religious 
duties like children who never had anything to reveal 
to their confessors. They believed firmly that music, 
the language of heaven, was to ideas and sentiments 
what ideas and sentiments are to speech ; they con- 
versed ad infinitum on this theory, answering one 
another by orgies of music, demonstrating to themselves 
their own convictions, after the fashion of all lovers. 


24 


Couiin Pon%, 


Schmucke was as absent-minded as Pons was intent. 
If Pons was a collector, Schmucke was a dreamer ; one 
studied noble moral truths, the other saved and gar- 
nered noble material objects. Pons saw and bought a 
porcelain cup, while Schmucke was blowing his nose 
and thinking over some theme of Rossini or Bellini or 
Beethoven or Mozart, and hunting through the regions 
of sentiment to discover the origin or the echo of that 
musical phrase. Schmucke, whose savings were at the 
mercy of his absent-mindedness, and Pons, prodigal on 
his passion for bric-a-brac, arrived at the same result on 
the Saint-Sylvester of every year, — an empt}^ purse. 

Without this friendship. Pons might have died of his 
griefs ; but as soon as he found a heart on which to un- 
burden his own, life became bearable to him. The first 
time he poured his troubles into Schmucke’s ear, the 
worthy German advised him to live as he did — on bread 
and cheese in his own home — rather than eat the dinners 
for which he was made to pay so dear. Alas ! Pons 
dared not confess to Schmucke that within him heart 
and stomach were enemies ; that the stomach demanded 
what the heart feared ; and that it must at an}' cost 
have a good dinner to relish, just as a man of gallantry 
requires a mistress — to provoke. In course of time 
Schmucke, who was too much of a German to have the 
rapid observation which Frenchmen enjoy, came to 
understand Pons, and he loved the poor soul only the 
better for his weakness. Nothing strengthens friend- 
ship more than for one friend to feel himself superior to 
the other. An angel would have found nothing to say 
against Schmucke if he had seen him rubbing his hands 
when he first discovered the strong grasp which the love 


Cousin Pons. 


25 


of good eating had laid upon his friend. Indeed, the 
next day he added dainties to their breakfast, which he 
bought himself ; and he took pains to have daily some 
rarity for his friend at breakfast, — a meal which since 
their intimacy they took together in their own home. 

It would argue little knowledge of Paris to suppose 
for a moment that the two friends escaped Parisian rid- 
icule, which respects nothing. Schmucke and Pons, 
when they married their wealth and their poverty, were 
seized with the thrifty idea of lodging ^gether. Ac- 
cordingly they shared the rent of an appartement, other- 
wise very unequally divided, in a quiet house in the 
quiet rue de Normandie, in the Marais. As they often 
left home in company, they were frequently to be seen 
walking side by side along the same boulevards, and the 
idlers of the neighborhood had christened them “ the 
two Nut-crackers.” This nickname relieves us from 
the necessity of giving a portrait of Schmucke, who was 
to Pons what the nurse of Niobe, the famous statue of 
the Vatican, is to the Venus of the Tribune. 

Madame Cibot, concierge of the house, was the pivot 
on which the domestic arrangements of the two Nut- 
crackers turned ; but she plays so important a part in 
the drama of their double lives, that it is best to with- 
hold her portrait until the moment of her entrance on 
the scene. 

What now remains to tell of the moral constitution of 
these two beings is precisely that which is most difficult 
to get into the comprehension of nine hundred and 
ninetj^-nine of the readers in this forty-seventh year of 
the nineteenth century, — probably because of the pro- 
digious financial development which has followed the 


26 


Cousin Pons. 


establishment of railroads. What we have to say may 
be little, yet it is much ; it is, in fact, to give some idea 
of the extreme delicacy of these two hearts. Let us 
borrow a figure from the railways, if only in repayment 
of the loans they obtain from us. The trains as they 
fiash along the rails grind into the iron imperceptible 
grains of sand. Insert one of those grains, invisible 
to the traveller, into his loins, and he endures the pain 
of that worst of maladies, the gravel. Men die of it. 
Well, that which to our society, rushing along its metallic 
wa}^ with the rapidity of a locomotive, is the invisible 
grain of sand of which it takes no notice, — that very 
grain, perpetually ground on all occasions into the fibre 
of these two beings, was to them the gravel of the heart. 
Full of exceeding tenderness for the troubles of others, 
each mourned over his own powerlessness ; and in the 
matter of their own feelings both had the exquisite sen- 
sitiveness of a person recovering from illness. Nei- 
ther old age nor the manifold sights of the Parisian 
drama had hardened these fresh, pure, childlike souls. 
The longer they went their way, the more vivid were 
their inward sufferings. Alas ! it is ever thus with the 
chaste natures, the tranquil thinkers, the true poets, who 
have never themselves fallen into excesses. 

Since the union of the two old men, their occupations, 
which were much alike, had assumed a fraternal sort of 
gait, such as may be observed in the horses of a Pari- 
sian hackney-coach. Getting up, summer and winter, 
at seven in the morning, they went out after breakfast 
to give lessons in their several schools, where on occa- 
sion each supplied the other’s place. Toward mid-day 
Pons went to his theatre, if there happened to be a 


Cousin Pons. 


27 


rehearsal ; and all his leisure time he spent in strolling 
about. The two friends met again in the evening at 
the theatre, where Pons had secured employment for 
Schmucke, in this wise : 

At the time when Pons first met Schmucke, he had 
just obtained, without seeking it, that marshal’s staff 
of all unrecognized composers, the conductor’s baton as 
leader of an orchestra. Thanks to Comte Popinot, — 
formerly Monsieur Anselme Popinot, married to Made- 
moiselle Cesarine Birotteau, — now a minister of state, 
this place was secured to the poor musician when that 
bourgeois hero of the July revolution gave the manage- 
ment of the theatre to an old friend, — one of those 
friends for whom a mere parvenu blushes, when, as he 
rolls in his chariot, he encounters some companion of his 
youth, seedy and out-at-elbows, wrapped in a top-coat 
of doubtful tint, with his nose to the wind of such things 
as bring no grist to the mill. This friend, formerly a 
commercial traveller named Gaudissard, was at one 
time instrumental in the success of the great house of 
Popinot. Popinot, now a count and peer of France, 
having been twice a minister of state, never forgot or 
disowned the Illustrious Gaudissard. Far otherwise ; for 
he was truly anxious to give the bagman an opportunity 
to replenish his wardrobe and refill his purse : neither 
politics nor the pomps and vanities of a citizen court 
had spoiled the heart of the former druggist. Gaudis- 
sard, always weak on women, asked for the lesseeship 
of a theatre which had lately failed ; and the minister, in : 
granting it, had taken care to send him a few old ama- ] 
teurs of the fair sex, rich enough to create a profitable ] 
stock-company in the interests of the ballet. Pons, a ‘ 


28 


Cousin Pons. 


parasite of the Hotel Popinot, was a condition of this 
license. The Gaudissard company — which, be it said, 
eventually made its fortune — started in 1834 with the 
intention of realizing on the boulevard a grand idea, — 
an opera for the people. The music for the ballets and 
the fairy scenes required a good leader of the orchestra, 
and one who was something of a composer. The man- 
agement to which the Gaudissard company succeeded 
had been so long on the point of failure that it employed 
no copyist. Pons got Schmucke into the theatre in that 
capacity, — an obscure occupation, which nevertheless 
requires serious musical knowledge. Schmucke, under 
Pons’s advice, made some arrangement with the head of 
the business at the Opera Comique, by which he avoided 
the mechanical part of it. The association of Pons and 
Schmucke had excellent results. Schmucke, who like 
all Germans was very strong in harmony, attended 
carefully to the instrumentation of the scores, for which 
Pons supplied the songs. When connoisseurs admired 
certain sparkling compositions which served as accom- 
paniments to two or three popular plays, they accounted 
for them by the word progress., without inquiring as 
to their authors. Pons and Schmucke were eclipsed by 
their own glory, as some people have been drowned in 
their own bath-tubs. In Paris, especially since 1830, 
no one arrives at eminence without pushing, quihuscum- 
que viis., and pushing masterfully, through an alarming 
crowd of competitors ; for this a man needs strength in 
his loins ; and the two friends had that gravel in their 
hearts which hinders all ambitious action. 

Ordinarily, Pons entered the orchestra of his the- 
atre at eight o’clock, the hour at which they give those 


Cou%in Pons, 


29 


favorite pieces that require the tyranny of the leader's 
baton, both for the overture and for the accompani- 
ments. This easy arrangement rules in most of the 
lesser theatres ; but Pons was allowed even more free- 
dom in this respect because of the great disinterested- 
ness he showed in his relations with the management. 
Moreover, Schmucke supplied his place if necessary. 
After a time, Schmucke’s position in the orchestra be- 
came a settled one. The Illustrious Gaudissard recog- 
nized, without saying a word about it, the value and 
usefulness of Pons’s assistant. Pianos had lately been 
introduced into the orchestras of the leading theatres. 
That instrument, played gratis by Schmucke, was soon 
stationed close to the leader’s desk, near which sat the 
volunteer supernumerary. As soon as the good Ger- 
man, who was without ambition or pretention, became 
known, all the musicians welcomed him heartily. The 
management soon after put Schmucke, at a moderate 
stipend, in charge of all those instruments that are 
not included in the orchestra of the boulevard theatres, 
but which, nevertheless, are often needed, — such as 
the piano, the tenor violin, the English horn, the violin- 
cello, the harp, the castanets for the cachucha, the 
bells, and all the Sax inventions, etc. Germans, though 
they may not know how to play the glorious instruments 
of Liberty, have a natural gift for playing all musical 
instruments. 

The two old men, extremely beloved at the theatre, 
lived in its precincts like philosophers. They had drawn 
a film over their eyes so as not to see the inherent evils of 
a company in which the corps de ballet mingles with the 
actors and actresses, — one of the worst combinations 


30 


Cousin Pons, 


that the necessity of drawing houses has created for the 
torment of directors, authors, and musicians. Sincere 
respect for himself and others won general esteem for 
the good and modest Pons. In every sphere of existence 
a pure and limpid life, an honor and honesty above re- 
proach, command a species of admiration from even the 
worst hearts. In Paris a noble virtue has the success 
of a large diamond, of a rare curiosity. Not an actor, 
nor an author, nor a dancer, however bold, would have 
played the smallest trick or permitted themselves the 
least jest against Pons or against his friend. Pons 
sometimes appeared in the green-room, but Schmucke 
knew naught but the subterranean passage which led 
from the orchestra to the outer wall of the theatre. 
Between the acts, when he was present at a represen- 
tation, the good old German ventured to look about him 
at the audience, and he sometimes questioned the first 
fiute — a young man born in Strasburg of a German 
family from Kehl — as to the eccentric individuals who 
usuallj' garnish the regions of the proscenium. Little by 
little, the childlike imagination of the old man (whose 
social education was undertaken by the fiute) admitted 
the fabulous existence of the Lorette, the possibility of 
marriage without formalities, the extravagancies of a 
leading actor, and the intrigues of the box-openers. 
The innocencies of vice seemed to the worthy man the 
last stroke of Babylonian iniquity, and he smiled as 
he would have done at Chinese arabesques. Knowing 
minds will readily understand that Pons and Schmucke 
were exploited and sponged upon, to use a phrase of the 
day ; but what they lost in money they gained in con- 
sideration and good-will. 


Cousin Pons. 


31 


After the success of ballet which started the rapid 
fortune of the Gaudissard company, the directors pre- 
sented Pons with a group in silver attributed to Ben- 
venuto Cellini, the astounding price of which had been 
a topic of a conversation in the green-room. It was 
an affair of twelve hundred francs ! The honest soul 
wished to return the gift. Gaudissard was at great 
pains to make him keep it. 

“ Ah ! if we could onl}' find actors of his stripe ! ” 
said the manager to his associate. 

This double life, so calm apparently, was troubled 
solely by the vice to which Pons bowed the knee^ — that 
fierce necessity which drove him daily to seek his unin- 
vited dinner. Every time that Schmucke chanced to be 
at home when Pons was dressing, the good German 
bewailed the fatal habit. 

“And subbose it make you fat!’’ he sometimes 
cried. 

Schmucke brooded over schemes to cure his friend of 
his besetting weakness ; for true friends are possessed, 
as to the moral order of things, with the perception of 
a dog’s nose : they scent the griefs of friends, they guess 
the causes, and their minds dwell upon them. 

Pons, who always wore upon the little finger of his 
right hand a diamond ring (tolerated under the Empire, 
but which was now considered ridiculous) , — Pons, far 
too much of a troubadour at heart, and too much of a 
Frenchman, gave no sign on his countenance of the 
divine serenity which diminished the frightful ugliness 
of Schmucke. The German detected in the melancholy 
expression of his friend’s face the increasing difficulties 
which made the calling of a parasite more and still 


82 


Cousin Pons, 


more distressing. In fact, by October, 1844, the num- 
ber of houses where Pons dined had become, naturally, 
much restricted. The poor musician, reduced to the 
round of his own relations, had, as we shall see, extended 
beyond all bounds the meaning of the word famil3\ 

Our worthy prix de Rome was cousin to the first wife 
of Monsieur Camusot, the rich silk-mercer of the rue de 
la Bourdonnais. She had been a demoiselle Pons, sole 
heiress of the famous house of Pons Brothers, embroi- 
derers to the Court ; a house in which the father and 
mother of the musician had been sleeping-partners, 
they having founded it before the revolution of 1789. 
Subsequent!}^ the business was bought b}' Monsieur 
Rivet, in 1815, from the father of the first Madame 
Camusot. Camusot himself, having retired from busi- 
ness for about ten years, was in 1844 member of the 
General Council on manufactures, and deputy, etc. 
The honest Pons, regarded as a friend by the whole 
tribe of Camusot, considered himself the cousin of the 
children whom Camusot had b}^ his second marriage, 
though in fact the}’^ were nothing whatever to him, not 
even connections. 

The second Madame Camusot being a demoiselle 
Cardot, Pons thus introduced himself as a relation of 
the Camusots to the numerous family of the Cardots, 
a second bourgeois tribe which through its marriages 
formed a circle not less important than that of the 
Camusots. Cardot the notar}", brother of the second 
Madame Camusot, had married a demoiselle Chiflreville. 
The celebrated family of the Chiffrevilles, sovereign of 
all chemical products, was closely allied in business 
with the wholesale drug trade ; and the cock of the 


CouBin Pons, 


38 


roost of that business was for a long time Monsieur An- 
selme Popinot, whom the revolution of July launched, 
as we know, into the very heart of d^mastic politics'. 
Pons, hanging to the skirts of the Camusots and the 
Cardots, came into the family of the Chiffrevilles, and 
from thence into the family of the Popinots, — always 
in the character of a cousin of cousins. 

This slight glance at the old musician’s affiliations 
will let the reader understand how it was that in 1844 
he was received on familiar terms, first, in the house 
of Monsieur le comte Popinot, peer of France, formerly 
minister of agriculture and commerce ; secondly, in that 
of Monsieur Cardot, retired notary, and now mayor and 
deputy of an an-ondissement in Paris ; thirdly, by old 
Monsieur Camusot, deputy, member of the Municipal 
Council of Paris and of the Council on manufactures, 
now in expectation of a peerage ; fourthly, in the family 
of Monsieur Camusot de Marville, son of Monsieur 
Camusot by his first marriage, and an actual cousin, — 
in fact the only real cousin of Sylvain Pons, though 
once removed. 

This last Camusot, who to distinguish himself from 
his father and his half-brother had added the name of 
his country-seat (de Marville) to his own, was in 1844 
president of the Cour-royale of Paris. 

The former notary, Cardot, having married his daugh- 
ter to his successor, named Berthier, Pons being part 
of the business, as it were, managed to lay hold of that 
dinner, — “ before a notary,” as he said. 

Such was the bourgeois firmament which Pons called 
his family, and where he had painfully made good his 
rights to a knife and fork. 


S4 


Cousin Pons. 


Of the ten houses, the one where the old musician 
might expect to be the most welcomed, that of the 
president Camusot de Marville, was the one which cost 
him the greatest pains. Alas ! the president’s wife, a 
daughter of the late Sieur Thirion, usher to the privy 
chamber of Louis XVIII. and Charles X., had never 
treated her husband’s half-cousin kindly. Pons lost 
much time in the effort to soften this terrible relation, 
for after giving gratuitous music lessons to Mademoi- 
selle Camusot he found it impossible to make a musician 
of that rather florid young lady. At the moment when 
we encounter him, Pons, with his hand on some precious 
article, was hurrying to the house of his cousin the 
president, where he used to fancy himself entering the 
Tuileries, so great an effect did the solemn green 
draperies, the brown tapestries, the moquette carpets, 
all portentously magisterial, produce upon his mind. 
Strange ! he felt at his ease in the Hdtel Popinot, rue 
Basse-du-Rempart ; doubtless because it was fllled with 
works of art ; for the former minister had, since his en- 
trance into political life, contracted a mania for collect- 
ing choice things, — perhaps in opposition to the genius 
of politics, which collects, secretly, the vilest actions. 


Couiin Fon8. 


35 


IV. 


ONE OF THE MANY JOTS OP A COLLECTOR. 

The president de Marville lived in the rue de Hanovre, 
in a house bought by his wife within the last ten years, 
since the death of her father and mother the sieur 
and dame Thirion, who had left her about a hundred 
and fifty thousand francs of their savings. This house, 
whose aspect on the street where it faces north is 
rather gloomy, enjoys a southern exposure at the back 
on the courtyard, beyond which it overlooks a rather 
fine garden. The magistrate occupied the whole first 
floor, which had been under Louis XV. the residence 
of one of the greatest financiers of that day. The 
second floor being let to a rich old lady, the whole 
house had a quiet and dignified appearance quite in 
keeping with its official character. The remains of the 
formerly magnificent estate of Marville, on the purchase 
of which the president had spent the savings of twenty 
years and the fortune derived from his mother, com- 
prised the chateau, a splendid erection such as may still 
be met with in Normandy, and a good farm, which 
brought in twelve thousand francs a year. A park of 
two hundred and fifty acres surrounded the mansion. 
The latter luxury, princely in these days, cost the presi- 
dent the value of over a thousand crowns ; so that his 
land did not bring him more than nine thousand francs. 


86 


Cousin Pons. 


in hand, as they say. These nine thousand franca 
and his salaiy gave the president an income of some 
twenty thousand francs all told, — apparently suflScient 
for his needs, especially as he expected the ultimate 
half of his father's property, being, as he was, the only 
child of the first marriage ; but the life of Paris and 
the demands of their official position compelled Mon- 
sieur and Madame de Marville to spend their whole 
income. Up to 1834, therefore, they were pressed for 
money. 

This inventory of their property will explain why 
Mademoiselle de Marville, a young lady twent}^- three 
years of age, was not married, in spite of a hundred 
thousand francs dot^ and in spite also of the tempting 
bait of her future expectations, cleverl}* and frequently, 
and yet fruitlessly, put forth. Cousin Pons had listened 
for at least .five years to the mournful complaints of 
Madame de Marville, who saw the rising 3 "Oung law- 
yers all married and the newly appointed judges in the 
lesser courts already fathers of families, and who had 
vainly exhibited the brilliant prospects of Mademoi- 
selle de Marville before the uncharmed eyes of the 
young Vicomte Popinot, eldest son of the primate 
of druggists, — for whose benefit, according to envioua 
souls in the quartier des Lombards, quite as much 
as for that of the younger Branch, the Revolution of 
duty had been made. 

When Pons reached the rue Choiseul and was about 
to turn into the rue de Hanovre, he experienced that 
inexplicable emotion which is the torment of a pure 
conscience, which inflicts the terror felt by the greatest 
scoundrels at the sight of a gendarme, and which was 


Cou%in Pons, 


37 


caused in this instance solely by the doubt as to how 
he might be received by Madame de Marville. This 
grain of sand, which was tearing the fibres of his heart, 
had never yet worn itself smooth ; its edges only grew 
sharper. And the servants of the house polished and 
sharpened them still further ; for the small account the 
Camusot family made of their Cousin Pons reacted on 
their people, who, without proceeding to actual disre- 
spect, considered him a species of pauper. 

The chief enemy of poor Pons was a certain Made- 
leine Vivet, a lean, dried-up old maid, the waiting- 
woman of Madame C. de Marville and her daughter. 
This Madeleine, in spite of a pimpled face, and perhaps 
because of it and of the viperous sinuosities of her 
figure, had taken it into her head to become Madame 
Pons. In vain she spread before the eyes of the old 
celibate the twenty thousand francs she had laid by. 
Pons declined the pimpled happiness. Consequently, 
this backstairs Dido, who longed to be the cousin of 
her masters, played spiteful tricks upon the poor musi- 
cian. When she heard his step on the stairs she 
would scream out, “ Ah ! here comes the poor relation,” 
trying to make him hear the words. If she waited at 
table in the absence of the footman, she would pour very 
little wine and a great deal of water into the victim’s 
glass, and give him the difficult task of getting it safely 
to his lips without spilling a drop, though it was almost 
running over. She would forget to serve the worthy 
man until her mistress reminded her (and in what a 
tone ! the poor cousin blushed at it) , and then she 
would spill the gravy on his clothes. In short, it was 
the warfare of an inferior knowing herself unpunishable 


38 


Cousin Pons, 


by a helpless superior. Madeleine, who was really both 
housekeeper and lady’s maid, had lived with Monsieur 
and Madame Camusot since their marriage. She had 
seen her masters in the penury of their early life in the 
provinces, where Monsieur Camusot had been a judge 
of the Lower Courts at Alen^on ; she had helped them 
to live, first at Mantes, where Monsieur Camusot was 
president of the same courts, and later, after he cams 
to Paris in 1828 and was appointed dHnstruction, 
She was thus too close to the family not to have some 
motives for revenge. The desire to play her proud, 
ambitious mistress the ill-turn of becoming her master’s 
cousin masked one of those hidden hatreds engendered 
by the gravel which makes an avalanche. 

“ Madame, here’s your Monsieur Pons, spencer and 
all ! ” cried Madeleine, running into her mistress’s room. 
‘ ‘ He ought to tell me the secret of how he has made 
that thing last for twenty-five years.” 

Hearing a man’s step in the little salon, which was 
between the large salon and her bedroom, Madame 
Camusot looked at her daughter, and shrugged her 
shoulders. 

“You always tell me so judiciously, Madeleine, and 
leave me no time to decide on anything,” she said, 
angrily. 

“ Madame, Jean is out ; I was alone. Monsieur Pons 
rang, I had to answer the door ; and as he is nearly 
always at the house I could n’t prevent him from com- 
ing in. He is just out there, getting ofl* his spencer.” 

“My poor Minette,” said Madame Camusot to her 
daughter, “we are caught; we shall have to dine at 
home. Come,” she added, seeing the vexed face of 


Cousin Pons. 


39 


tier dear Minette, “ suppose we were to get rid of him 
forever ? ” 

“ Oh, the poor man ! ” answered Mademoiselle Camu- 
sot, laughing, “ deprived of one of his dinners ! ” 

The little salon here resounded with the fictitious 
cough of a man who tries to say, “ I hear you/* 

“ Well, let him come in,** said Madame Camusot to 
Madeleine, with a shrug of her shoulders. 

“ You have come so early, monsieur,** said Cecile 
Camusot, with a saucy air, “ that you have caught us 
just as my mother was beginning to dress.** 

Pons, who had not failed to see the shrug of Madame 
Camusot’s shoulders, was so cruelly hurt that he found 
no compliment ready on his lips, and was fain to con- 
tent himself with the profound remark, “ You are always 
charming, my little cousin ! ** 

Then turning to the mother with a bow, “ Dear 
cousin,** he added, “you will not, I am sure, blame 
me for coming earlier than usual ; for I bring you 
something you did me the pleasure to ask for — *’ 
And the luckless Pons, who literally sawed in two 
the president, his wife, and Cecile every time he called 
them cousin, drew from the pocket of his coat a ravish- 
ing little oblong box, made of wood from the Antilles, 
and exquisitely carved. 

“ Ah ! I had forgotten it,** said Madame de Marville, 
dryly. 

The exclamation was outrageous ; for it took all the 
merit out of the attention of the good soul, whose only 
crime was that he was a poor relation. 

“Well,** she resumed, “you are very kind, cousin 
How much do I owe you for this little trifle ? ** 


40 


Cousin Pons, 


The question made the poor man quiver inwardly; 
for he had counted on paying off the score of his dinners 
by this choice offering. 

“ I hoped you would allow me to present it to you,” 
he said in a voice of some emotion. 

“ Ah, indeed ! ” replied Madame Camusot, “ but we 
won’t stand on ceremony, you and I ; we know each 
other quite well enough to speak plainly. You are not 
rich enough to be lavish with your means ; is n’t it 
enough that you have taken trouble and lost your time 
running about among the shops — ” 

“You would not take the fan at all, my dear cousin, 
if you had to pay the value of it,” returned the poor 
man, much wounded ; “ it is a masterpiece by Watteau, 
who painted both sides of it. But don’t disturb your- 
self, cousin ; it did not cost me a hundredth part of its 
value.” 

To tell a rich woman that she is poor is like tell- 
ing the archbishop of Granada that his homilies are 
worthless. Madame de Marville was too puffed-up 
by the position of her husband and the ownership 
of the estate of Marville and the invitations she re- 
ceived to the court balls, not to be stabbed to the heart 
by such a remark, especially when it came from a 
poor musician in whose eyes she wished to stand as 
a benefactor. 

“ What stupid people they must be, from whom you 
buy such things ! ” she hastily remarked. 

“ There is no such thing as a stupid shop-keeper in 
Paris,” answered Pons, almost dryly. 

“Then it is you who are very clever,” said Cecile, 
to calm the debate. 


Cousin Pons, 


4l 


“ My little cousin, I am clever enough to know 
Lancret, Pater, Watteau, and Greuze ; but, above all, 
I desire to please 5’our dear mamma.” 

Conceited and ignorant as she was, Madame de 
Marville was reluctant to seem to accept the smallest 
gift from a poor relation ; and her ignorance in this 
case served her admirably, for she did not even know 
the name of Watteau. If anything can express the 
lengths to which the self-love of a collector (certainly 
one of the keenest, for it rivals that of an author) can 
go, it is the audacity with which Pons had just dared 
to make head against his cousin, for the first time in 
twenty years. Thunderstruck at his own hardihood, 
Pons subsided into a peaceable expression of counte- 
nance as he explained to Cecile the beauty of the deli- 
cate carving on the sticks of this marvellous fan. But 
to understand fully the secret of the heartsick trepida- 
tion to which the poor man was a prey, it is needful 
that we should give a slight sketch of the object of his 
terror. 

At fort3"-six ^^ears of age, Madame de Marville, 
formerlj' small, blond, plump, and fresh, was still small, 
but was now withered. Her prominent forehead and 
pinched mouth, adorned in youth with delicate tints, 
had lately altered her expression, which was naturally 
disdainful, and given her a sullen, crabbed look. The 
habit of absolute control in her own home gave a hard 
and disagreeable turn to her countenance. Time had 
changed her blond hair to a faded chestnut. The eyes, 
still keen and caustic, revealed the haughty severity 
of her nature, embittered by concealed envy ; for she 
felt herself a poor woman in the midst of that circle 


42 


Cousin Pom, 


of rich mushroom-bourgeois with whom Pons was in 
the habit of dining. She could not forgive the rich 
druggist, the former president of the Commercial courts, 
for becoming successively deputy, minister of state, 
count, and peer. She could not forgive her father-in- 
law for accepting, to the detriment of his eldest son, 
the appointment of deputy from his arrondissement 
at the time when Popinot was raised to the peerage. 
Her husband had seen eighteen years’ service in the 
courts of Paris, but she was still hoping for the place of 
councillor to the Court of Appeals, — though he was, 
in fact, excluded from it by an incapacity which was 
well understood at the Palais. The minister of justice 
in 1844 regretted Camusof s appointment as president, 
or judge, of the Cour-royale, which took place in 1834 ; 
but he had been relegated to the chamber of indict- 
ments, where, thanks to his old experience as an ex- 
amining judge, he did good service in deciding arrests. 
These mishaps and disappointments, after wearing 
upon Madame de Marville, who was not at all blind to 
the actual value of her husband, had rendered her really 
terrible. Her character, alwaj^s aggressive, was now 
virulent. Aging and aged, rather than old, she had 
learned to be sharp and incisive as a brush, for the pur- 
pose of obtaining through fear what the world about her 
was inclined to deny. Satirical to an extreme, she had 
few friends. She was held in awe, for she surrounded 
herself with a number of old women tarred with the 
same brush, who upheld her under peril of retaliation. 

Thus the relations of poor Pons to this devil in 
petticoats were like those of a schoolboy to a master 
who addi’essed him only with a birch. She could not 


Cousin Pons, 


43 


understand his sudden boldness, for she was ignorant 
of the value of his gift. 

“Where did you get it?’’ asked C^cile, examining 
the treasure. 

“ Rue de Lappe, at a second-hand dealer’s, who had 
just got it from a chateau they have dismantled near 
Dreux, at Aulnaj^ — a chateau where Madame de 
Pompadour occasionally lived before she built Menars. 
The most splendid wainscotings ever seen have been 
rescued from it ; they are so beautiful that Li^nard, our 
finest carver in wood, has kept two oval panels for 
models, as the ne plus ultra of art. Such treasures ! 
My dealer found this fan in a honheur-du-jour of mar- 
quetry, which I should have bought if I collected such 
things ; for me, however, it was out of the question : 
such a piece of furniture — it is by Reisener — is worth 
from four to five thousand francs. They are just be- 
ginning to find out in Paris that the famous German 
and French inlayers of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and 
eighteenth centuries have made pictures — actual pic- 
tures — in wood. The merit of a collector is to be 
before the fashion. Why ! five 5^ears hence, in Paris, 
they will pay for porcelains of Frankenthal, which I 
have been collecting for the last twenty years, twice as 
much as they do now for the pate tendre of Sevres ! ” 

“ What is Frankenthal? ” asked Cecile. 

“It is the name of the manufactory of porcelains 
belonging to the Elector-Palatine ; it is older than our 
manufactory at Sevres, — just as the famous gardens at 
Heidelberg, devastated by Turenne, had the ill-luck to 
exist before those of Versailles. Sevres has copied a 
great deal from Frankenthal. The Germans — for we 


44 


Counn Pons. 


must give them this credit — made admirable things 
before we did, in Saxony, and also in the Palatinate.” 

The mother and daughter looked at each other as it 
Pons were discoursing in Chinese ; it is hard to believe 
how ignorant and limited to their own little round Pa- 
risians can be. They do not even know what they 
are being taught, though they may wish to learn it. 

“ How do 3^ou know Frankenthal when you see it?” 

Wh3% the signature ! ” cried Pons enthusiastically ; 
“ all these enchanting masterpieces are signed. The 
Frankenthal bears a C and a T (for Charles-Th^odore) 
interlaced and surmounted with a prince’s coronet. 
Old Dresden has the two swords, and the number of its 
class in gold. Vincennes signs with a horn. Vienna 
has a Fj closed and barred. Berlin has two bars ; 
Mayence, a wheel ; Sevres, the two XX’s ; and the 
queen’s-porcelain is marked with an J, meaning An- 
toinette, surmounted by the royal crown. In the eigh- 
teenth century" all the sovereigns of Europe were rivals 
in the manufacture of porcelain. They enticed awaj^ 
each other’s workmen. Watteau designed dinner-ser- 
vices for the manufactory at Dresden, and his works 
sell at an exorbitant price ; but it is necessary to be 
a good judge, for Dresden is now manufacturing cop- 
ies of them. Ah ! in those da^^s they made exquisite 
things, such as they will never make again.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” 

“No; never! They can never come up to certain 
marquetries, certain porcelains, — just as they can never 
equal the paintings of Raphael, or Titian, or Rem- 
brandt, nor those of Van E3’ck, nor even Cranach ! 
Why, look at the Chinese ! they are wonderfull3^ clever 


Cousin Pons, 


45 


and skilful; and yet to-day they are only recopying 
the fine specimens of their porcelain called the Grand- 
Mandarin. Two vases of old Grand-Mandarin of the 
best shape are worth six, eight, ten thousand francs, and 
mere copies of them cost two hundred.” 

“ You are joking.” 

“ Cousin, such prices astonish you, and yet they are 
a mere nothing. A full dinner-service for twelve per- 
sons in Sevres pto tendre (which is not porcelain) is 
worth a hundred thousand francs, and that moreover 
is the actual cost of its manufacture. A service of that 
kind was sold at Sevres, in 1750, for fifty thousand 
francs. I have seen the original bill of sale.” 

‘ ‘ To come back to this fan,” said C^cile, in whose 
eyes that treasure seemed a great deal too old. 

‘‘You must know that I began to hunt for it as soon 
as your dear mamma did me the honor to request a 
fan,” resumed Pons. “ I looked through all the anti- 
quity shops in Paris without finding anything of any 
value, — for of course I wanted a masterpiece for my 
dear cousin. I hoped to give her the fan of Marie- 
Antoinette, — that most exquisite of all the celebrated 
fans. But yesterday I was dazzled by this divine 
masterpiece, which Louis XV. himself most assuredly 
ordered. Do you ask why I went to the rue de Lappe 
for a fan, — to an Auvergnat who sells brasses and 
iron- work and gilt furniture? Well, I believe in the 
actual intelligence of works of art; they know con- 
noisseurs, they call them, they say ‘ zit, zit ! ’ ” — 

Madame de Marville shrugged her shoulders and 
glanced at her daughter, unperceived by Pons. 

“I know the ways of those pillagers, those Auverg- 


46 


Cousin Pons, 


nats, — every one of them. ‘ What have you to-day, 
Papa Monistrol ? Have 3’ou got any carved portals ? * 
I asked the trader, who always lets me look over his 
things before he shows them to the large dealers. 
When I asked him that, Monistrol told me how Li 4 - 
nard, who was carving some fine things in the chapel at 
Dreux for the civil list, had rescued all the wainscotings 
from the fangs of Parisian dealers at Aulnay while 
they were bus}" with the porcelains and the inlaid-work. 
‘ I have n’t got much,’ he answered, ‘ not more than 
enough to pay for my journe3^’ Then he showed me 
the honheur-du-jour, — a marvel ! from designs of Bou- 
cher, done in marquetry with such art ! — enough to 
make a man drop on his knees ! ‘ See, monsieur,’ he 

said, ‘ I have just found this fan in a little locked drawer ; 
the ke}' was lost, but I pried it open, — you can tell 
me who I ought to sell it to ; ’ and he drew out this 
little carved box made of wood from the Antilles. 
‘ See,’ he said, ‘ it is Pompadour of the flowery gothic.’ 
‘ Oh, yes,’ I answered, ‘ the box is well enough, and I 
might take it, — a box like that ; but as for the fan, 
my good Monistrol, I have n’t a Madame Pons who 
would care for the old gem. Besides, now-a-days they 
make new ones which are very pretty ; they paint them 
on vellum in a really marvellous way, and sell them at 
a bargain. Don’t you know there are two thousand 
painters in Paris?’ So saying, I carelessly opened 
the fan ; but I carefully concealed my admiration, and 
glanced coldly at those two little pictures, which have 
a freedom, a touch, an execution truly bewitching ! I 
held in my hands the fan of Madame de Pompadour ! 
Watteau outdid himself when he designed it! ‘How 


Cousin Pons. 


47 


much do you want for the whole piece of furniture ? * 
I asked. ‘ Oh, a thousand francs,' he said, ‘ I have 
been offered that alread}- ! ' I named a price for the 
fan, corresponding as near as I could guess to the costs 
of his journey. We looked each other through and 
through, and I saw I'd caught him. I put the fan 
back into its box at once, so that the Auvergnat 
shouldn't examine it, and I went into ecstasies over 
the carving of the box, which is, really and truly, a 
gem. I said to Monistrol, ‘ If I buy it, it is for the 
sake of the box ; that does tempt me. As to your bon- 
heur-du-jour, you can get more than a thousand francs 
for it. Just see the chasing of that brass ! why, it 's a 
model, — you can make a great thing of it j it has never 
been reproduced ; like everything that was ever made 
for Madame de Pompadour, it is unique.' And there 
was my man, all on fire about his bonheur-du-jour. He 
forgot the fan ; I got it for nothing in return for the 
revelation I made him of the beauty of Reisener's 
work ; that 's the whole of it ! Ah ! one has to be very 
knowing to manage such bargains ; it 's a battle of eye 
to eye ; and where 's there an eye like a Jew's or 
an Auvergnat's? " 

The inimitable pantomime, the rapture of the old 
artist, which made him, as he recounted the triumph 
his craftiness had won from the ignorance of the trader, 
a model worthy of a Dutch painter, were all lost 
upon the mother and daughter, who exchanged a frigid 
and contemptuous glance which meant, “What an old 
oddity ! " 

“Does that sort of thing amuse you?" asked Ma- 
dame de Marville. 


48 


Cousin Pons. 


Pons, chilled to the bone by such a question, longed 
to rush at Madame de Marville and pommel her. 

“Why, my dear cousin,” he said, “it’s the hunt of 
masterpieces ! we are face to face with adversaries who 
protect the game ; it is trick for trick, diamond cut 
diamond ; a treasure, a masterpiece to wrest from Nor- 
mans, Jews, and Auvergnats ! Why, it ’s like a fairy 
tale, a princess guarded by magicians ! ” 

“ How do you know it is Wat — what did you call 
him?” 

“ Watteau, my dear cousin, — one of the greatest 
French painters of the eighteenth century ! Here, don’t 
you see the signature?” he cried, showing her one of the 
pastorals, which represented a ring danced by fictitious 
shepherdesses and great lords as their swains. “ What 
swing ! what animation ! what color ! And it is done — 
with a stroke as it were ! like the fiourish of a writing- 
master, no effort ! you don’t perceive the work ! On the 
other side, see ! a dance in a ball-room ! It is winter 
and summer! What ornamentation, and how well- 
preserved ! Don’t you see the ferule is of gold, and on 
each side it has a little ruby, which I ’ve cleaned up.” 

“ If that is so, cousin, I really cannot accept a gift 
of such value from you. You had much better invest 
the money where it will bring you some return,” said 
Madame de Marville, who would have liked nothing 
better than to keep the magnificent fan. 

“It is high time that having served Vice it should 
now be in the hands of Virtue ! ” said the worthy man, 
recovering self-possession. “ It has taken a hundred 
years to bring about such a miracle. You may be sure 
that no royal princess has anything comparable to this 


Cou9in Pom, 


49 


treasure, for unfortunately human nature is so consti- 
tuted that it does more for a Madame de Pompadour 
than for a virtuous queen/’ 

“ Very well, I accept it,” said Madame de Marville, 
laughing. “ Cecile, my angel, go and tell Madeleine to 
see that the dinner is worthy of our cousin.” 

She meant by that to square the account ; the mes- 
sage, spoken aloud contrary to the rules of good breed- 
ing, was so like giving change for a payment that Pons 
blushed like a young girl detected in a fault. The 
gravel was very coarse, and rolled about his heart for 
some time. Cecile, a very freckled young woman, whose 
bearing, infected with pedantry, was an imitation of her 
mother’s judicial severity with a touch of the latter’s 
sharpness, disappeared at once, leaving poor Pons in 
the clutches of his terrible relation. 


60 


Cousin Pom, 


V. 

ONE OP THE THOUSAND AFFRONTS A POOR RELATION 
HAS TO BEAR. 

“ She is very sweet, my little Lili,” said Madame de 
Marville, using the childish abbreviation formerly given 
to the name of Cecile. 

“ Charming!” echoed the old musician, twirling his 
thumbs. 

“ I can’t understand the times we live in,” said his 
cousin. ‘ ‘ What is the good of having a president of the 
Cour-royale of Paris and a commander of the Legion 
of honor for your father, and a millionnaire deputy, a 
future peer of France, and the richest of all the whole- 
sale silk merchants for your grandfather, I should like 
to know ? ” 

The devotion of the president to the new dynasty 
had recently won him the ribbon of a commander of 
the Legion of honor, a favor attributed by envious ac- 
quaintances to the friendship which allied him with 
Popinot. That minister, in spite of his natural modesty, 
had allowed himself, as we have seen, to be made a 
count, — “for the sake of my son,” he used to say to 
his numerous friends. 

‘ ‘ Money is what everybody wants in these days,” 
answered Cousin Pons; “none but the rich are re- 
spected and — ” 


Cousin Pons. 


51 


“ What a state of things it would have been,” in- 
terrupted Madame de Marville, “ if Heaven had left me 
my little Charles ! ” 

“ With two children you would have been poor,” re- 
plied her cousin. “That’s the result of the equal 
division of property. But don’t worry yourself, my 
beautiful cousin, Cecile will end by making a good 
marriage. I don’t see such an accomplished girl 
anywhere.” 

This was how Pons debased his soul before his am- 
phitr 3 ^ons ; he repeated their ideas, and uttered plati- 
tudes upon them, after the fashion of a Greek chorus. 
He dared not surrender himself to the originality of the 
true artist, which had welled up within him in his 
3 ’outh, with man^" a delicate trait now nearly smothered 
by the habit of effacing himself, and which other 
people forced back whenever, as at this moment, it 
reappeared. 

“ But I was married with a twenty thousand francs 
doty only — ” 

“ Ah ! in 1819, my cousin,” interrupted Pons ; “ and 
besides, it was yow, a woman of mind, a young girl 
under the protection of Louis XVIII.” 

“But my daughter is an angel of perfection; she 
has a fine mind, she is full of heart ; she will have a 
hundred thousand francs in marriage, without count- 
ing her expectations ; and here she is, still on our 
hands — ” 

Madame de Marville went on talking about herself 
and her daughter for twenty minutes, giving vent to 
the dismal complaints peculiar to mothers who are in 
the power of a marriageable daughter. During the last 


52 


Oousin Pon8, 


twenty years, when the old man had dined weekly 
with his cousin Camusot, he had never heard a single 
word of the president’s personal affairs, or of his life, 
or his health. Pons was, moreover, a species of gutter 
for domestic confidences ; his well-known and necessary 
discretion offering the strongest security, — a necessary 
discretion indeed, for a single chance word would have 
closed to him the doors of ten houses. His vocation of 
listener was therefore encouraged by constant approba- 
tion ; he smiled at all he heard, blamed no one and 
excused no one ; to him they were all in the right. In 
fact, he could no longer be rated as a man ; he was a 
stomach. In the course of her long tirade Madame de 
Marville admitted, though not without some precau- 
tions, that she was inclined to accept blindly any pro- 
posals for her daughter that might present themselves. 
She went so far as to say that she should be satisfied 
with a man forty-eight years old, provided he had an 
income of twenty thousand francs. 

“ Cecile is in her twenty-third year, and if she should 
be so unlucky as to reach twenty-five or twenty-six it 
would be excessively difficult to marry her. The world 
asks why a young girl ‘ hangs fire ’ so long. Already 
people in our circle are talking about her, and we have 
exhausted all the commonplace reasons : ‘ She is very 
young.’ — ‘ She is too fond of her parents to leave 
them.’ — ‘ She is happy at home.’ — ‘ She is fastidious, 
and wants a distinguished name.’ We are getting 
ridiculous ; I feel it. Besides, Cecile is weary of wait- 
ing ; she suffers, poor little thing.” 

“ Why does she suffer? ” asked Pons, foolishly. 

“ Because,” replied the mother in the tone of a 


Cousin Pons. 


53 


duenna, “ she is humiliated by seeing all her friends 
married before her/’ 

“My dear cousin, what has happened since I last 
had the pleasure of dining here, to make 3^ou think of 
men who are forty-eight years old?” asked the poor 
musician, humbly. 

“ This has happened,” answered Madame de Mar- 
ville ; “we were to have had an interview with a privy 
councillor whose son is thirty years old and has a con- 
siderable fortune, and for whom Monsieur de MarvUle 
would have obtained through the Treasury a place as 
referee in the Court of Exchequer, — he is there already 
as a supernumerary. We have just been informed that 
this 3’oung man has had the folly to go off to Itah" in 
the train of a divinity of the hal Mahille. It ’s a dis- 
guised refusal. They don’t want to give us the young 
man, whose mother is dead, and who has in his own 
right an income of thirty thousand francs, while wait- 
ing for his father’s fortune. So you must forgive our 
ill-humor, cousin ; you have come just at the crisis.” 

While Pons was tr3dng to find the complimentary 
reply which invariabty came to him too late in presence 
of the amphitryons of whom he stood in awe, Made- 
leine entered with a note for Madame de Marville, and 
waited for an answer. The missive was as follows : — 

“ Let us pretend, dear mamma, that this note is sent from 
the Palais by my father, and that he tells you to take me to 
dine with his friend and renew the affair of my marriage. 
The cousin will then go away, and we can follow out our 
plans at the Popinots.” 

“How did 3"our master send this note?” asked 
Madame de Marville, hastily. 


64 


Cousin Pons, 


“ By a porter from the Palais,” answered the grim 
Madeleine, boldly. 

This reply of the old waiting-woman proved to her 
mistress that she had brewed the plot in concert with 
the disappointed Cecile, 

“ Say that my daughter and I will be there at half- 
past five.” 

As soon as Madeleine disappeared, Madame de 
Marville turned to Pons with the sham courtesy that 
rasps a sensitive soul roughly, like the eflect produced 
on the tongue of an epicure by a mixture of vinegar 
and milk. 

“ My dear cousin,” she said, “ the dinner is ordered ; 
you must eat it without us, for my husband writes from 
the court-room to say that the councillor still wishes the 
marriage, and we are to dine with him to-day; you 
understand that there is no ceremony between us. 
Make yourself entirely at home. You see the frank- 
ness with which I treat you ; I make no mystery of it. 
You would not wish me to lose a marriage for my 
little angel?” 

“I? my dear cousin, on the contrary I desire of 
all things to find her a husband ; but in the circle I 
visit — ” 

“ Of course it is not likely there,” she interrupted 
rudely. “Well, then, you will stay? Cecile shall come 
and sit with you while I dress.” 

“ Oh, cousin, I can go and dine elsewhere,” said the 
poor man. Though cruelly hurt by the manner in which 
she had made him feel his indigence, he was even more 
frightened by the prospect of being left alone with the 
servants. 


Cousin Pons, 


65 


“Why should you? the dinner is prepared, the ser- 
vants will eat it.” 

When he heard the insulting speech Pons started up 
erect, as though the knob of a, galvanic battery had 
touched him ; he bowed coldly to his cousin and made 
for his spencer. The door of Cecile’s bedroom, which 
opened into the little salon, was a-jar, so that as he 
glanced before him into a mirror. Pons saw the young 
girl in fits of laughter, nodding to her mother with pan- 
tomimic gestures which revealed some base mystifica- 
tion to the old man. He went slowly down the staircase, 
with difficult}’ restraining his tears. He felt he was being 
driven from the house, yet without knowing why. 

“ I am too old,” he said ; “ the world hates old age 
and poverty, — two hideous things. I will never again 
dine an3^where without an invitation.” 

Heroic words ! 

The door of the kitchen, which was on the ground- 
floor and faced the porter’s lodge, was open, as it fre- 
quently is in houses that are occupied by their owners, 
and where the porte coch§re is consequently shut ; the 
old man could therefore hear the laughter of the cook 
and the footman, to whom Madeleine was relating the 
trick just played upon him, for she did not expect him 
to evacuate the premises so hastily. The footman 
highl}’ approved of any joke against a retainer of the 
house, who, as he said, gave him nothing but “ a bit of 
a crown ” at the end of the year. 

“ Yes, but if he takes oflTence and never comes back,” 
remarked the cook, ‘‘ it will be three francs the less for 
all of us on New Year’s day.” 

“ Well, how should he hear of it?” said the footman. 


56 


Cousin Pons. 


“ Bah ! ** cried Madeleine, “ a little sooner or a little 
later, what does it matter? He bores the masters of all 
the houses where he dines, and before long they ’ll all 
turn him out.” 

At this moment the old man called to the porter, 
“ The door, if you please.” The cry, uttered in griev- 
ous accents, was followed by a profound silence in the 
kitchen. 

“ He was listening,” said the footman. 

“Well, no help for it, — or rather, so much the 
better,” retorted Madeleine; “he’s a dead rat.” 

The poor man, who had not lost a syllable of the 
kitchen-talk, heard even these last words. He returned 
home along the boulevards in a state such as an old 
woman might have been in after a deadly struggle with 
assassins. He walked with convulsive swiftness, talk- 
ing to himself, for his bleeding honor drove him like a 
straw before a furious wind. At last, about five o’clock, 
he reached the boulevard du Temple, without knowing 
how he got there ; and yet, strange to say, he felt not 
the slightest appetite. 

In order to comprehend the complete upset which the 
return of Pons at this hour produced in his own home, 
the explanations heretofore promised as to Madame 
Cibot must now be given. 


Cousin Pons, 


57 


VI. 


SPECIMEN OP DOORKEEPERS (mALE AND FEMALE). 

The rue de Normandie is one of those streets 
where, if we advance into the middle of it, we might 
believe ourselves in the provinces ; grass grows there, 
a passing step is an event, and the inhabitants all 
know each other. The houses date from the period 
under Henry IV., when a quarter was laid out in which 
each street was to bear the name of a province, and in 
the centre of which a fine square was to be dedicated to 
France herself. The idea of the quartier de TEurope 
was a repetition of this plan. The world repeats itself 
everywhere and in everything, — even in speculations. 
The house in which the old musicians lived was an old 
mansion between court and garden ; but the front of 
the house, on the street, had been built at a time when 
the Marais — during the last century — was the extreme 
of fashion. The two friends occupied the whole of the 
second fioor of the mansion. It was a double house, 
belonging to Monsieur Pillerault, an octogenarian, who 
left the superintendence of it to Monsieur and Madame 
Cibot, his doorkeepers for more than twenty-six years. 
Now, as the emoluments of a doorkeeper in the Marais 
are not great, the Sieur Cibot added to his tithe of a 
sou per franc, and his log levied upon each load of 


68 


Cousin Pons, 


wood, the resources of his personal industry ; he was a 
tailor, like many another concierge. In course of time 
he had ceased to work for the master-tailors ; for, as 
a result of the confidence his neighbors of the smaller 
bourgeoisie placed in him, he enjoyed a monopoly of 
the repairs, darns, and renovations “ as good as new,” 
in a perimeter of three streets. The porter’s lodge was 
large and airy, and adjoined a bedroom. Thus the 
Cibot household was considered highly fortunate hy all 
the other concierges of the arrondissement. 

Cibot — a stunted little man, grown olive-colored by 
dint of perpetually sitting cross-legged like a Turk, on 
a table which raised him to the height of a barred win- 
dow looking on the street — earned about fifty sous a 
day at his trade. He still worked at it, though he was 
fifty-eight years old ; but fifty-eight happens to be the 
prosperous age for a concierge, for by that time he has 
fitted into his lodge, and the lodge holds him as an 
oyster-shell holds the oyster; above all, he is “ known 
to the neighborhood.” 

Madame Cibot, formerly a handsome oyster-woman, 
had left her stand at the Cadran-Bleu out of love for 
Cibot, when she was twenty-eight years of age, having 
passed through the usual adventures which a beautiful 
oyster-seller encounters without ever seeking them. 
The good looks of the women of the people seldom last 
long, especiall}^ when they are trained like wall-fruit at 
the door of a restaurant. The scorching blaze of the 
kitchen hardens their features, the dregs of the bottles 
drunk in company with the waiters filter through their 
complexions ; and no bloom wilts quite as quickly as that 
of a handsome oyster- woman. Fortunately for Madame 


Cousin Pons, 


59 


Cibot, a legitimate marriage and life in a porter’s lodge 
came in time to preserve her good looks ; she continued 
to be the model of a Rubens, and retained a vigorous 
beauty, which her rivals in the rue de Normandie calum- 
niated, and called blowsy. Her fresh tints might be 
compared to those appetizing mounds of Isigny butter 
to be seen in the markets ; yet in spite of her corpu- 
lence, she displayed astounding agility in the exercise 
of her functions. Madame Cibot had now reached an 
age when her st3de of woman resorts to the razor. Is 
not that as good as sa^ung she was forty-eight years 
old? A female doorkeeper with a moustache is the 
best guaranty of order and security for the owner of a 
house. If Delacroix could have seen Madame Cibot 
proudty leaning on the handle of her broom, he would 
certainly have sketched her as Bellona. 

The position of the Cibot couple was destined, 
strangely enough, to affect in future da^^s that of the 
two Nut-crackers ; and the historian, if he would be 
faithful, is obliged to enter into some details respecting 
the porter’s lodge. The house brought a rental of about 
eight thousand francs ; for it had three suites of apparte- 
ments, double in depth, upon the street, and three more 
in the old mansion between the court and garden. In 
addition to these, a trader in old iron, named Remonencq, 
occupied a shop which opened on the street. This Re- 
monencq had evolved within a few months into a dealer 
in curios, and knew so well the bric-a-bracquous value 
of Pons that he bowed to him from the depths of his 
shop whenever the old musician went out of the house or 
returned to it. The porter’s fee, the sou per franc, 
brought about four hundred francs a year to the Cibot 


60 


Cousin Pons. 


household, which, moreover, got its lodging and its fire- 
wood for nothing. As the united wages of husband 
and wife averaged seven or eight hundred francs a 
year, they made up, counting their New Year’s gratui- 
ties, an income of sixteen hundred francs, all of which 
they spent ; for the pair lived at a better rate than the 
body of the common people. “You can onl}" live 
once,” Madame Cibot used to say. She was born 
during the Ke volution, and was, as we see, ignorant of 
the catechism. 

Through her former relations with the Cadran-Bleu, 
Madame Cibot had acquired certain culinary accom- 
plishments which made her husband an object of envy 
to all his male companions. Thus it happened that at 
their present ripe age, with their feet on the threshold 
of old age, the pair had laid by barely a hundred francs. 
Well clothed and well fed, they enjoyed throughout the 
neighborhood the consideration due to twenty-six j^ears 
of strict integrity. If they owned no property, at least 
they “ had n’t none of other people’s,” as Madame Cibot, 
who was lavish with her negatives, frequentty remarked. 
Both were proud of their honest lives open to the day- 
light, of the esteem which half-a-dozen streets bestowed 
upon them, of the autocratic power which their proprie- 
tor allowed them to exercise over the premises ; and yet 
they groaned in secret at having no invested means. 
Cibot complained of twinges in his hands and legs, and 
Madame Cibot deplored the fact that her poor Cibot 
was compelled to work hard at his age. The day will 
come when, after thirty j^ears of such a life, a concierge 
will accuse the government of injustice, and demand 
the decoration of the Legion of honor ! Every time 


Coudn Pons, 


61 


the gossips of a neighborhood tell the tale of some 
servant who, after eight or ten years’ service, gets a 
snug bequest of three or four hundred francs’ annuity, 
doleful complaints go from lodge to lodge, — which may 
give an idea of the jealousies that pervade the lower 
callings in Paris. 

“ There now ! it will never happen to us poor fellows 
to get mentioned in a will! We’ve no chance. We 
are more useful than the servants, any day. We are 
trusted with everything ; we make out the receipts, we 
collect the cash ; and yet we are treated like dogs, 
neither more nor less ! ” 

“There ain’t nothing but ill luck!” said Madame 
Cibot. “If I’d left Cibot to his den and gone and 
made myself a cook, we ’d have had thirty thousand 
francs invested by this time,” she cried, as, with her 
hands on her big hips, she stood gossiping with a 
neighbor. “I hain’t taken life right. Talk about 
being lodged and warmed, and wanting for nothing, 
indeed ! ” 

When, in 1836, the two friends arrived, and occupied 
together the whole of the second floor of the old man- 
sion, they occasioned a sort of revolution in the Cibot 
household ; in this wise : Schmucke, and also his friend 
Pons, was accustomed to employ the doorkeepers, male 
or female, of the houses where he lived, to take charge 
of his rooms. The two musicians therefore agreed, when 
they settled in the rue de Normandie, to make an ar- 
rangement with Madame Cibot, who forthwith became 
their housekeeper for the consideration of twenty-five 
francs a month, — twelve francs fifty centimes for each 
of them. At the end of a year this portress- emeritus 


62 


Cousin Pons, 


reigned over the household of the two old bachelors, 
just as she reigned over the house of Monsieur Pille- 
rault (the great-uncle of Madame la comtesse Popinot) ; 
their aifairs were her affairs, and she always called 
them “ my two gentlemen.” At last, finding the Nut- 
crackers as meek as sheep, easy to get on with, never 
suspicious, mere babes as it were, she began, with the 
heart of a woman of the people, to protect and adore 
them, and to serve the old men with such genuine devo- 
tion that she sometimes lectured and warned them, pro- 
tecting them the while against the many frauds which 
in Paris swell all household expenses. For twenty- 
five francs a month the two bachelors, unintentionally 
and unawares, acquired a mother. As soon as they 
perceived Madame Cibot’s real value, the two musicians 
artlessly presented her with little gifts and thanks and 
praises, which drew closer still the bonds of the domestic 
alliance. Madame Cibot preferred a thousand times 
being appreciated at her true value to any payment, — 
a sentiment which tends, if well understood, to eke out 
the wages. Cibot himself went of errands, mended the 
clothes, and did all else that was in his line, for his 
wife’s gentlemen, at half price. 

Finally, at the beginning of the second year, a new 
element of mutual friendship was developed in the close 
relation between the second floor and the porter’s lodge. 
Schmucke concluded a bargain with Madame Cibot, 
which satisfied his own laziness and his desire to live 
without giving his mind to mundane affairs. For the 
sum of thirty sous a day, or forty-five francs a month, 
Madame Cibot engaged to supply him with breakfast 
and dinner. Pons, finding his friend’s breakfast very 


Cousin Pons, 


63 


satisfactor}’, made a like bargain for his own breakfast 
at eighteen francs a month. This system of supply^ 
which threw a nice little monthly sum into the receipts 
of the lodge, made the two tenants inviolable beings, 
angels, cherubim, divinities. It is very doubtful if the 
King of the French, who understands such matters, is 
as well served as were the two Nut- crackers. For them, 
the milk came pure from the can ; they read gratui- 
tously the newspapers of the first and third floors, whose 
tenants got up late, and who were told, if they in- 
quired, that their papers had not yet come. Madame 
Cibot, moreover, kept the appartement and the old 
man’s clothes and the landing, and indeed everything, in 
a state of Flemish cleanliness. Schmucke, poor fellow, 
enjoyed a happiness he had never dared to hope for ; 
Madame Cibot made his life easy. He paid about six 
francs monthly for his washing, which she did herself, 
together with its mending ; and he spent fifteen francs 
besides for tobacco. These three items of expense 
made a total monthly sum of sixty-six francs ; which, 
multiplied by twelve, amounted to seven hundred and 
ninety-two francs a year. Add two hundred and 
fifty-eight francs for rent and extras, and we have a 
thousand and fifty. Cibot made Schmucke’s clothes, 
and the average of that expense was a hundred and 
fifty. So this profound philosopher lived at a cost of 
twelve hundred francs a year. How many people there 
are in Europe whose sole desire is to reside in Paris, 
who will be agreeably surprised to hear that they can 
live there happily in the rue de Normandie, in the 
Marais, under the protection of a Madame Cibot, for 
twelve hundred francs a year! 


64 


Cousin Pons, 


Madame Cibot was amazed when she saw Pons com- 
ing home at five in the afternoon. Not only had such 
a thing never happened, but “her monsieur” did not 
even see her, and did not bow to her. 

“Well, well, Cibot!” she said to her husband. 
“Monsieur Pons has either turned miUionnaire or 
crazy.” 

“ It looks like it,” returned Cibot, letting fall the 
sleeve of a coat in which he was making, to use the 
slang of his trade, un poignard. 


Cou%in Pom. 


66 


VII. 

A LIVING EDITION OF THE FABLE OF THE 
TWO PIGEONS. 

A** the moment when Pons was mechanically return- 
ing home, Madame Cibot was getting Schmucke’s dinner 
read3\ It consisted of a certain ragout, whose appetiz- 
ing odor was wafted through the court^'ard, and was 
made of scraps of boiled beef bought at a cook-shop and 
fricasseed in butter with onions cut in fine strips, until 
the butter was wholly absorbed by the meat and onions, 
so that this backstairs delicacy had the appearance of 
something fried. This dish, lovingly’ concocted for 
Cibot and Schmucke, between whom Madame Cibot 
divided it equally’, accompanied by a bottle of beer and 
a bit of cheese, sufficed the old German music-master 
for his dinner. Some days it was the boiled beef fricas- 
seed with onions ; other days there were odds and ends 
of chicken saute ; then again, slices of cold beef with 
vinegar and parsley, and a fish cooked with a sauce 
of Madame Cibot’s own invention, in which a mother 
might have eaten her own children without perceiving 
it ; on other occasions a dish of venison, according to 
the quality or the quantity sold second-hand from the 
restaurants of the boulevards to the hucksters of the 
rue Boucherat. Such was Schmucke’s bill of fare ; he 
made no complaint, and was satisfied with all his 

5 


t)6 


Cousin Pons* 


“ goot Matame Zipod” gave him. So, from day to 
day, the good Madame Cibot lessened the fare, until 
she managed to supply it at a cost to herself of twenty 
sous. 

‘ ‘ I must go up and see if nothing hain’t happened to 
him, — the poor dear man ! ” said Madame Cibot to her 
spouse ; “ here ’s Monsieur Schmucke’s dinner, done to 
a turn.” 

Madame Cibot covered the earthenware dish with a 
common china-plate, and then, in spite of her age, she 
reached the second floor just at the moment when Pons 
opened Schmucke’s door. 

“ Vas ees de madder, my goot frent?” asked the 
German, frightened by the convulsed face of Pons. 

“ I will tell you all ; but I ’ve come to dine with you.” 

“To tine! to tine!” cried Schmucke, delighted. 
“ Pud dad ees imbossible ! ” he added, remembering 
the gastronomic habits of his friend. 

At this moment the old German perceived Madame 
Cibot, who was listening, according to her legitimate 
rights as housekeeper. Seized by one of those inspira- 
tions which only come to the heart of a true friend, he 
went straight up to her and drew her out upon the 
landing. 

“ Matame Zipod, my goot Bons lofes goot dings to 
eat. Go to der Gadran-Ploo, and gate a naice liddel 
tinner, — Anchofies, magaroni, — a tinner fit for Lu- 
gullus ! ” 

“ What’s that? ” demanded Madame Cibot. 

“ Eh ! ” said Schmucke ; “ vy, it ees ein frigandeau 
of feal, it is a goot feesh, a pottle of Porteaux, — efery- 
ding dat ees goot and tainty, — rice groquettes, some 


Cousin Pons, 


67 


smoaked pagon. Bay for it ; doan’t say a vort. I ’ll 
gif 3"ou de money, myself, in de morning.” 

Schmucke came back, rubbing his hands with a joyous 
air ; but his face fell gradually back into an expression 
of stupefaction as he listened to the sorrows that had 
suddenly overwhelmed the heart of his friend. He en- 
deavored to console him by depicting the world from his 
own point of view. Paris was a perpetual tornado ; 
men and women were whirled about in the mazes of a 
furious waltz ; 3"ou must never expect anything of so- 
ciety which only looks at the surface, and “ nefer ad de 
inderior,” he said. He related for the hundredth time 
how, from year to 3"ear, the only three pupils that he loved, 
by whom he was cherished, for whom he would have laid 
down his life, from whom he even received a little pen- 
sion of nine hundred francs, to which each contributed 
the equal share of three hundred francs, had so utterly 
forgotten, j^ear after year, to come and see him, were so 
carried away by the violent current of Parisian life that he 
had not been received by them, when he called, for more 
than three years. (It is true that Schmucke presented 
himself at the houses of these great ladies at ten o’clock 
in the morning.) And finally, he asserted that his little 
pension was paid quarterly b}’ a notary*. 

“ And yet,” added he, ‘‘ dey are hearts of cold ; dey 
are my liddel Zaind-Zeegilias, lofely laties, — Matame 
de Bordentuere, Matame Fantenesse, Matame ti Dillet. 
Ven I zee dem it ees in der Jambs-^llysees ; dey doan’t 
zee me — pud de}^ lofeme, and I gan go and tine mit 
dem, and dey vould be clad. I gan go to der goundry- 
houses ; pud I breffare to pe mit my frent Bons, be- 
gause I gan zee him at all hours, ven I laike.” 


68 


Cousin Pons, 


Pons took Schmucke’s hand within both of his, and 
wrung it with a movement by which his whole soul was 
communicated; the two old men remained thus for 
some minutes, like lovers who meet again after long 
absence. 

“ Tine mit me, here, effry tay ! ” cried Schmucke, in- 
wardly blessing Madame de Marville’s cruelty. “ Zee ! 
ve vill prig-k-brag togedder ; and der teffel shall nefare 
get his dail eenzide our toors.” 

To explain the meaning of this truly heroic offer “ ve 
vill prig-a-brag togedder,” it must be admitted that 
Schmucke was in a state of crass ignorance as to bric-k- 
bracology. It took the whole force of his friendship 
to keep him from breaking the treasures in the salon 
and in the appartement given up to Pons for a museum. 
Schmucke, wholly devoted to music, a composer for his 
own happiness, looked upon all the little follies of his 
friend, as a fish invited to a fiower-show at the Luxem- 
bourg might have looked upon the choicest blossoms. 
He respected those marvels of art solely because of the 
respect which Pons manifested as he dusted his treas- 
ures. He responded, ‘‘Yes, dad ees breddy ! ” to the 
admirations of his friend, just as a mother replies with 
unmeaning phrases to the gestures of a child that cannot 
yet talk. Schmucke had seen Pons change his clock 
seven times since the two friends had lived together, 
always exchanging it for one which he considered more 
choice. Pons possessed at the present moment a mag- 
nificent clock, made of ebony by Boule, inlaid with brass 
and carved in Boule’s earliest manner. Boule had two 
manners, just as Raphael had three. By the first he 
wedded brass to ebony ; in the second he immolated him- 


Comin Pons, 


69 


self, against his convictions, to tortoise-shell, and pro- 
duced masterpieces solely to vanquish his competitors, 
who had invented the tortoise-shell and mother-of-pearl 
inlay. In spite of Pons's learned disquisitions, Schmucke 
could not see the slightest difference between the mag- 
nificent clock in Boule's first manner and any of its ten 
predecessors. But because they made his friend happy 
Schmucke took even more care of these “ blaydings," 
as he called them, than the collector himself. It is not 
surprising, therefore, that Schmucke’s heroic speech had 
the effect of calming his friend’s despair, for the “ ve 
vill pric-a-prac togedder ” of the worthy German meant, 
“ I will spend some money on brig-a-brag if you will 
only dine here.” 

“Dinner is ready, gentlemen,” said Madame Cibot, 
with surprising composure. 

We can readily understand Pons’s astonishment at 
seeing and enjoying the dinner which he owed to 
Schmucke’s friendship. Such emotion, so rare in life, 
does not come from the steady devotion which makes 
two men say to each other perpetually, “I am your 
other self,” for to that they grow accustomed ; no, it 
is caused by the comparison which such proofs of the 
happiness of domestic intimacy afford to the brutal sel- 
fishness of the wa^^s of the world. It is such experi- 
ence of the world which ceaselessly links anew lover to 
lover, and friend to friend, when two true souls are 
wedded either by love or friendship. Pons wiped great 
tears from his eyes, and Schmucke was obliged to dry 
the moisture in his. They said nothing, but they loved 
each other the more ; and they nodded little signs to 
each other, whose balm soothed the anguish of the gravel 


70 


Cousin Pons. 


ground by Madame de Marville into the heart of Pons. 
Schmucke rubbed his hands till he nearly peeled off the 
skin, for he suddenly conceived a scheme which stuns a 
German only when rapidly forced out of his brain, con- 
gealed, as it is, by respect for the sovereign princes. 

“ My goot Bons,” he began. 

‘ ‘ I guess what you want : you wish that we should 
dine together every day. ” 

“ I vish dat I vas zo reech as to tine like dat effry 
tay,” answered Schmucke, sadly. 

Madame Cibot, to whom Pons occasionally gave 
tickets for the theatre, — a gift which put him on the 
same level in her maternal heart as her boarder 
Schmucke, — here made a proposal, which was as 
follows : — 

“My goodness!” she said; “for three francs I’ll 
give you a dinner, — without no wine, — that ’ll make 
you lick the dishes and leave ’em so clean they won’t 
want no washing.” 

“It ees drue,” cried Schmucke. “I tine pedder 
mit vat Matame Zipod gooks for me, dan oder beoble 
who eat der King’s deeshes.” 

In the fervor of his new hope, the reverent German 
went so far as to imitate the irreverence of the minor 
newspapers, by calumniating the fare paid for at so 
much a head at the royal table. 

“ You don’t say so ! ” answered Pons. “ Well, then, 
I ’ll try it to-morrow.” 

As he heard the words, Schmucke sprang from one 
end of the table to the other, dragging the cloth, the 
dishes, and the water-bottles after him, and seized 
Pons in a close embrace, comparable to that of one 


Cousin Pons. 


71 


gas catching hold of another gas for which it has an 
affinity. 

“Vat choy ! ” he cried. 

“ Monsieur will dine here every day! ” proudly ex- 
claimed Madame Cibot, with tender emotion. 

Without knowing the circumstance to which she 
owed the accomplishment of her dream, the worthy 
dame descended into the porter’s lodge much as 
Josepha comes upon the scene in “William Tell.” She 
rattled down the plates and dishes, crying out, — 

“Cibot! go and get two coffees at the caf4 Turc, 
and tell the waiter they are for me ! ” 

Then she sat down with her hands upon her sturdy 
knees, and looked out of the window at the opposite 
wall. 

“ I ’ll go this very evening and consult Madame Fon- 
taine,” she cried. 

Madame Fontaine was the fortune-teller of all the 
cooks, lacqueys, and porters in the Marais. 

“ Since those two gentlemen came to live in this 
house we’ve put two thousand francs in the savings 
bank. In eight years ! what luck ! I wonder if I 
had n’t better not earn nothing out of Monsieur Pons’s 
dinner, and that’ll encourage him to dine at home? 
Ma’ame Fontaine’s hen can advise me about that.” 

As she had seen no heirs belonging either to Pons or 
Schmucke, Madame Cibot for the last three j^ears had 
indulged the hope of a mention in the wills of ‘ ‘ her 
gentlemen ; ” and her zeal redoubled under the pressure 
of a cupidit}^ which had sprouted rather late in life, like 
her beard, — which up to that time had been the beard 
of integrity. 


72 


Cousin Pons* 


By dining out every day, Pons had hitherto escaped 
the absolute servitude in which it pleased Madame 
Cibot to hold her gentlemen. The nomadic life of the 
old troubadour-collector had hitherto scared the vague 
ideas of testamentary seduction which cuiwetted through 
the brain of Madame Cibot, but which, from the date 
of this memorable dinner, took the shape of a formida- 
ble plan. Fifteen minutes later she reappeared in the 
dining-room, armed with two excellent cups of coffee, 
flanked by two petit verres of Kirchwasser. 

“ Long lif Matame Zipod ! ” cried Schmucke ; “ she 
has tefined joost vat ve vanted.” 

After a few lamentations from poor Pons, which 
Schmucke combatted with such billings and cooings 
as the sitting pigeon ought to lavish on the traveller 
pigeon, the two friends went out together. Schmucke 
was unwilling to leave his friend to himself in the 
trouble of mind which the masters and servants at the 
Camusot’s had occasioned him. He knew Pons, and 
was sure that cruelly sad reflections were likety to seize 
him even on his magisterial seat in the orchestra, and 
thus destroy all the good effect of his home-coming to 
the nest. When Schmucke brought Pons back at mid- 
night, he still had him by the arm, and, like a lover 
escorting an adored mistress, he pointed out to him 
the spots where the pavement ended, or where it be- 
gan ; he warned him of all the gutters ; he would fain 
have had the pavement cotton, the skies blue, and the 
angels whispering in his friend’s ear the music which 
they sang in his. He had conquered the last prov- 
ince which was not already his own in that other 
heart ! 


Cousin Pons, 


73 


For nearly three months Pons dined every day with 
Schmucke. At first he was obliged to retrench eighty 
francs a month from the sum he usually spent on his 
collections; for his wine cost him about thirty-five 
francs a month in addition to the forty-five francs for 
his dinner. Then, notwithstanding all the painstaking 
and Teutonic buffoonery of Schmucke, the old artist 
regretted the well-cooked dishes, the little glasses of 
liqueur, the good coffee, the chat, the empty civilities, 
the guests, and the gossip of the houses where he for- 
merly dined. We cannot break up the habits of thirty- 
six years in the decline of life. Wine at a hundred 
and thirty francs a hogshead is poor liquid to pour 
into the glass of an epicure ; and each time Pons car- 
ried the glass to his lips he recalled with poignant regret 
the exquisite wines of his amphitryons. So, by the end 
of three months the sharp suffering which had almost 
broken his sensitive heart was allayed ; and he thought 
of the pleasures of society just as an old man regrets a 
mistress whom he has abandoned for her infidelities. 
Though he tried to hide the melancholy which consumed 
him, it was evident that the old musician was attacked 
by one of those mysterious diseases whose seat is in the 
moral being. To explain the nostalgia caused by a 
shattered habit, we need only point to one of the thou- 
sand nothings which, like the fine rings of a coat of mail, 
wrap the soul in a network of iron. One of the keenest 
pleasures in the former life of Pons — a pleasure com- 
mon to a poor relation sponging for a dinner — was the 
surprise^ the gastronomic effect, of some unexpected 
dish, some dainty, added triumphantly by the mistress 
of a bourgeois house to give a festal air to her dinner. 


74 


Cousin Pons, 


This tickling charm to his stomach was lacking at home, 
for Madame Cibot always proudly informed him of the 
bill of fare. The periodic piquancy of daily life had 
totally disappeared. His dinner was eaten without the 
unanticipated dainty which in the households of our 
ancestors went by the name of “ the covered dish.’’ 

Schmucke was unable to comprehend all this : Pons 
was too delicate to complain. But if there is one thing 
more distressing than genius misunderstood, it is a 
stomach not understood at all. The heart whose love 
is rebuffed (a drama, by the by, greatly overdone) rests 
upon a false want ; for if the creature deserts us, we can 
at least love the creator ; he still has treasures to bestow. 
But the stomach ! Nothing can be compared to its 
sufferings ; for after all, and before all, it is the seat of 
life ! Pons regretted certain custards, true poems ! cer- 
tain white sauces, masterpieces ! certain truffled chick- 
ens, paragons ! but above all, those famous Rhine carp 
which can be found only in Paris, and with what condi- 
ments ! Pons would sometimes cry aloud, “Oh, So- 
phia ! ” as his thoughts turned to the cook of the house 
of Popinot. A casual observer, hearing this ciy, would 
have supposed that the good soul was thinking of his 
mistress, when in fact his mind was on something far 
more choice, — a fat carp, accompanied by a sauce 
which was clear in the sauce-boat, and thick on the 
tongue ! — a sauce worth}’ of the prix Monty on ! The 
remembrance of those eaten dinners made the poor 
victim of gastric nostalgia grow considerably thinner. 

At the beginning of the fourth month, — that is, 
towards the end of January, 1845, — the 3’oung flute 
(who, like nearly all Germans, was called Wilhelm, and 


Cousin Pons, 


lb 


Schwab to distinguish him from the other Wilhelms, — 
which, however, did not distinguish him from the other 
Schwabs) thought necessary to enlighten Schmucke on 
the condition of the leader of the orchestra, which had 
given rise to much comment at the theatre. It was 
the evening for the first performance of a piece in which 
the old German was to play some of his supernumerary 
instruments. 

“That worthy old Pons is getting feeble; there’s 
something out of tune in his bellows, — his eye is sad, 
the movement of his arm is shaky,” said Wilhelm 
Schwab to his compatriot, pointing to the good soul 
as he climbed to his desk with a funereal air. 

“ At sixty years of age people are all like that,” an- 
swered Schmucke in German. 

Schmucke — like the mother in the “Chronicles of 
Canongate,” who to keep her son twenty-four hours 
longer caused his execution — was capable of sacrificing 
Pons for the pleasure of dining with him every day. 

“ Everybody at the theatre is anxious about him,” 
continued Wilhelm; “and, a^ Mademoiselle Heloise 
Brisetout, our leading danseuse, says, he does n’t 
even make a noise when he blows his nose ! ” 

The old musician usually seemed to be blowing a 
horn when he blew his nose ; for that long and capa- 
cious member resounded in his handkerchief, and the 
racket was a cause of frequent complaint from Madame 
de Marville to her Cousin Pons. 

“ I would give a great deal to amuse him,” said 
Schmucke, “he is getting so melancholy.” 

“Look here!” cried Schwab. “Monsieur Pons 
always seems such a superior being to us poor devils 


T6 


Cousin Pons, 


that I don’t like to ask him to my wedding. I ’m to be 
married — ” 

“ How married?” demanded Schmucke. 

“Oh! very properly,” answered Wilhelm, — who 
thought Schmucke’s queer question meant a jest, of 
which that perfect Christian was incapable. 

“ Come, gentlemen, take your places,” said Pons, 
looking round the orchestra at his little army as he 
heard the director’s bell. 

They played the overture of the “Devil’s Bride,” — 
a fair}" piece which ran through two hundred repre- 
sentations. Between the first two acts Wilhelm and 
Schmucke were left alone in the deserted orchestra. 
The atmosphere of the theatre was up to about thirty- 
two degrees Reaumur. 

“ Tell me about your marriage,” said Schmucke. 

“ There ! don’t you see the young man in that pro- 
scenium box? Do you recognize him?” 

“Nein — ” 

“ Ah ! that’s because he has got yellow gloves, and 
shines with a glow of opulence ; he is my friend, Fritz 
Brunner, of Frankfort-on-the-Main.” 

“ He that used to come and sit in the orchestra 
beside }• ou ? ” 

“The very same. It is hard to believe in such a 
metamorphosis, isn’t it?” 

This hero of the promised tale was one of those 
Germans whose face contains the sombre mockery of 
the Mephistopheles of Goethe and the good-natured 
jollity of the novels of Auguste Lafontaine, of placid 
memory ; cunning as well as simplicity, the hard eager- 
ness of the counting-room and the deliberate laisstr* 


Cousin Pons, 


77 


alter of a member of the Jockey Club ; above all, the 
profound disgust of life which put a pistol into the 
hand of Werther, who was far more weary of the Ger- 
man princes than he was of Charlotte. It was a truly 
typical German face, with much shrewdness and much 
simplicity, showing stupidity as well as courage, a 
knowledge of life producing weariness, an experience 
that any childish fancy rendered fruitless, a constant 
abuse of beer and of tobacco, — but, as if to heighten 
the effect of all these antitheses, a devilish glance came 
from the handsome, tired blue eyes. Dressed with the 
elegance of a banker, Fritz Brunner presented to the 
gaze of the audience a bald head in the coloring of a 
Titian, on each side of which curled a small quantity 
of bright blond hair, which want and debauchery had 
left upon his head that he might have cause to pay a 
hairdresser when the day of his financial resuscitation 
came. His face, once fresh and handsome like the 
Christ of the great masters, had acquired certain sharp 
tones, which red moustachios and a tawny beard made 
almost sinister. The pure blue of his eyes had grown 
cloudj^ in his struggles with grief ; the endless prostitu- 
tions of Paris had blurred the line of the lids and the 
contour of the eyes, where once a mother had seen with 
delight a divine reflection of her own. This premature 
philosopher, this youthful old man, was the product of 
a step-mother. 

Here begins the singular history of a prodigal son of 
Frankfort-on-the-Main, — the most extraordinary and 
out-of-the-way affair that ever happened in that well' 
conducted, though central, town. 


78 


CouBin Pom, 


VIIL 

(N WHICH WE SHALL SEE THAT PRODIGAL SONS ALWAYS 

END BY BECOMING BANKERS AND MILLIONN AIRES , PRO- 
VIDED THEY BELONG TO FRANKFORT-ON-THE-MAIN. 

Monsieur G:i&d^on Brunner, father of the present 
Fritz, one of those famous innkeepers of Frankfort-on- 
the-Main who practise, in collusion with the bankers of 
that town, the depredations authorized by law upon the 
pockets of tourists, an honest Calvinist to boot, had 
married a converted Jewess, to whose dot he owed the 
beginning of his fortune. The Jewess died, leaving a 
son Fritz then twelve years old, to the guardianship 
of his father, and under the special supervision of a 
maternal uncle, a furrier at Leipsic, — the head of the 
house of Virlaz & Co. Brunner the father was forced 
by this uncle, who was not as soft as his furs, to turn 
the lad’s fortune into solid money and place it in the 
banking-house of Al-Sartchild, without using it. In re- 
venge for this Jewish exaction, Pere Brunner married 
again, alleging the impossibility of keeping his immense 
inn without the fostering eye and arm of a wife. He 
married the daughter of a brother innkeeper, considering 
her a pearl of price ; but he had had no experience of 
what an only daughter, indulged by father and mother, 
could be. The second Madame Brunner was a sped- 


Cousin Pons. 


79 


men of what young German women become when they 
are frivolous and ill-tempered. She wasted her hus- 
band’s fortune, and avenged the first Madame Brunner 
by making him in his own home the most wretched 
man to be found in the whole territory of the freetown 
of Frankfort, — where, they say, millionnaires are now 
procuring a municipal law to compel wives to cherish 
their husbands exclusively. This German dame loved 
the vinegar which her countrymen commonly call 
Rhine-wine ; she loved the article-Paris ; she loved 
to ride on horseback ; she loved dress. In short, the 
only expensive things she did not love were women. 
She took an aversion to little Fritz, and would soon 
have driven him craz}", if that youthful product of Cal- 
vinism and the Mosaic dispensation, though cradled in 
Frankfort, had not been placed under the guardianship 
of the house of Virlaz at Leipsic ; it must be added, 
however, that his uncle Virlaz, wrapped up in his furs, 
kept watch of nothing but the lad’s silver marks, and 
left his nephew a prey to the step-mother. 

This hyena of a woman was all the more savage 
against the cherubic son of the beautiful Madame 
Brunner, because, in spite of her efforts, she had no 
children of her own. Prompted by a diabolical idea, 
this evil-minded German woman drove young Fritz, 
when only twenty-one years of age, into a career of 
dissipation. She flattered herself that English horses, 
Rhine- vinegar, and the Margarets of Goethe would soon 
eat up the son of the Jewess and his fortune ; for 
Uncle Virlaz had died and left the little Fritz a hand- 
some property just at the time the latter attained his 
majority. But although the green baize of watering 


80 


Cousin Pons, 


places and the friends of the flowing bowl (among 
whom was Wilhelm Schwab) used up the capital of 
Virlaz, the prodigal son himself was kept alive by the 
will of God to serve as a warning to the 3’oung fry of 
Frankfort-on-the-Main, where all parents used him as a 
scarecrow to keep their sons well-conducted and sub- 
missive behind their iron counters, well lined as they 
were with silver dollars. 

Instead of djdng in the flower of his age, Fritz 
Brunner had the pleasure of burying his step-mother 
in one of those delightful cemeteries where the Ger- 
mans, under pretence of honoring the dead, give loose 
to their frantic passion for horticulture. The second 
Madame Brunner died before the authors of her being. 
Old Brunner was so used up, — both in mone}’, which she 
had extracted from his coflTers, and by suflerings which 
she had made him endure, — that this luckless inn-keeper 
of herculean constitution, beheld, at the age of sixt}"- 
seven, his fine proportions shrunken as if the famous 
fish of the Borgias had gnawed him. Not to inherit 
the fortune of his wife after enduring her for ten 3’ears 
made the man another ruin of Heidelberg, — though re- 
stored from time to time by the bills of travellers, just 
as they restore the remains of Heidelberg to keep up 
the enthusiasm of tourists who rush to see the beau- 
tiful ruin so “ wonderfully preserved.” All Frankfort 
talked about Brunner as if he were a bankrupt, and 
people pointed at him with their fingers, sajdng to each 
other, — 

“ Just see to what condition a bad wife, whose prop- 
ert^^ 3’ou can’t inherit, and a bad son, brought up like 
a Frenchman, may bring us to !” 


Cousin Pons. 


81 


In Italy and in Germany Frenchmen bear the blame 
of all misfortunes, and are targets for every ball ; “ but 
the god pursuing his destiny ” — for the rest see the 
ode of Lefranc de Pompignan. 

The rage of the proprietor of the Grand Hotel de 
Hollande was not wreaked merely upon travellers whose 
biUs felt the weight of his anger: when his son was 
totally ruined, Gedeon, regarding him as the indirect 
cause of his misfortunes, refused him bread or water, 
salt, fire, lodging, or a pipe! — which in a German 
inn-keeping parent is the last degree of paternal male- 
diction. The authorities of the place, not taking into 
account the original wrong-doing of the father, looked 
upon him as the most unhappy man in Frankfort-on-the- 
Main, and accordingly came to his aid ; they expelled 
Fritz from the territory of their Free-town, making 
German war upon him. Justice is neither more hu- 
mane nor more intelligent in a Free-town than it is else- 
where, albeit that town is the seat of the German Diet. 
It is seldom that a magistrate reascends the stream 
of crimes and misfortunes, to find the pool from whence 
the first thread of water fiowed. If Brunner forgot his 
son, the friends of the son imitated the father. 

Ah I if this history could have been played before the 
foot-lights, before the eyes of this audience, among 
whom journalists, lions, and even a few Parisian women 
were inquiring from whence came the deeply tragic face 
of that German who had suddenly risen to the surface 
of the gay world of Paris, on the occasion of a first 
representation, alone, in a proscenium box — it would 
have been a far finer spectacle than the faiiy play 
of the “Devil’s Bride,” though that was the two- 
d 


82 


Cousin Pons. 


hundred thousandth representation of the sublime 
parable played in Mesopotamia three thousand years 
before Christ. 

Fritz went on foot to Strasburg, and there he met 
with something which the prodigal son of the Bible did 
not find in the far country of sacred Scripture. Herein 
is revealed the superiority of Alsace, where beat those 
generous hearts that are born to show Germany the 
beauty and excellence of the fusion of French wit and 
intelligence with the more solid German qualities. Wil- 
helm Schwab, who had lately inherited the property of 
his father and mother, possessed at this time a hundred 
thousand francs. He opened his arms to Fritz, he 
opened his heart, he opened his house, he opened his 
purse. To describe the moment when Fritz, dusty, 
wretched, and quasi-leprous, received a piece of actual 
gold from the hand of a true friend on the other bank 
of the Rhine, would be to launch into an ode, and Pin- 
dar alone, in his own Greek, could pour it forth to hu- 
manit}", — a lesson to revive expiring friendship. Put 
the names of Fritz and Wilhelm with those of Damon 
and Pythias, Castor and Pollux, Orestes and Pjdades, 
Dubreuil and Pmejk, Pons and Schmucke, and all the 
fancy names which we give to the two friends of Mono- 
motapa ; for La Fontaine, man of genius that he was, 
made semblances of friendship, without bod}- and with- 
out life. Add these new names to their compeers ; 
and with all the more reason because Wilhelm ate his 
patrimony in company with Fritz, just as Fritz had 
formerly drunk up his fortune with Wilhelm; at the 
same time smoking, be it remarked, every known 
species of tobacco. 


Comin Pons, 


83 


The two friends swallowed up this inheritance, strange 
to say, in the beer-gardens of Strasburg. in the stupid- 
est, dullest, and most vulgar fashion, with ballet-girls of 
the Strasburg theatres, and Alsatians of easy virtue. 
Every morning they said to each other, “We must pull 
up, we must decide on a plan, and do something with 
the little that remains to us.” 

“ Bah ! one day more,” Fritz would exclaim ; “ and 
to-morrow — ” 

Ah ! to-morrow ! In a spendthrift’s life To-day is 
a great coxcomb, but To-morrow is a great coward, who 
takes fright at the courage of his predecessor. To-day 
is the braggadocio of ancient comedy; To-morrow is 
the Pierrot of our pantomimes. When the two friends 
reached their last thousand-franc note they took their 
places in a diligence which carried them to Paris, where 
they lodged under the eaves of the H6tel du Rhin, rue 
de Mail, kept by one Graff, formerly head-waiter with 
Gedeon Brunner. Fritz got a place as clerk, at a salary 
of six hundred francs, with the Keller Brothers, to whom 
Graff recommended him. Graff, the proprietor of the 
Hotel du Rhin is the brother of Graff the famous tailor. 
The tailor took Wilhelm as bookkeeper. Graff con- 
sidered these places due to the two prodigals in return 
for his apprenticeship at the Brunner inn. These two 
facts — a ruined friend recognized by a rich friend, and 
a German hotel-keeper doing his best for two penniless 
compatriots — might lead some people to suppose that 
the present history is a novel; but truth is so like 
fiction, that fiction in these days takes unheard-of pains 
to look like truth. 

Fritz, a clerk at six hundred francs, and Wilhelm, 


H 


Cousin Pons, 


bookkeeper at the same salary, soon found the diffi- 
culty of living in so enticing a city as Paris. There- 
fore, during the second ^-ear of their stay, in 1837, 
Wilhelm, who played the flute with some talent, got 
a place in the orchestra led by Pons, to earn occasional 
butter for his bread. As to Fritz, he could only eke 
out his salary by displajing the financial capacity of a 
descendant of the Virlaz. In spite of his assiduity, 
however, perhaps because of his very talents, the Fanc- 
fourtois only reached two thousand francs in 1843. 
Poverty, divine stepmother, did for the two young men 
what their own mothers had been unable to do : she 
taught them economy, the world, and life ; she gave 
them the high and stern education which she drives 
like a spur into great men, who are all unhappy in their 
youth. Fritz and Wilhelm, being no more than ordi- 
nary mortals, did not give ear to all the lessons of Pov- 
erty; they battled against her coercions, they found 
her bosom hard, her arms fleshless ; and they had no 
eyes to see, beneath her rags, that fairy Urgela who 
yields to the caresses of men of genius. Nevertheless, 
they learned the full value of money, and they pledged 
each other to cut its wings if ever again it crossed their 
threshold. 

“ Well, Papa Schmucke, I *11 explain It all in two 
words,*' replied Wilhelm, who forthwith recounted in 
Geiman and at great length the whole histor3% 
“ Pere Brunner is now dead. He was, unknown to 
his son or to Monsieur GraflT, with whom we lodged, 
one of the first promoters of the Baden railroads, from 
which he realized enormous profits, and has left four 


Cousin Pons, 


85 


millions. I am playing the flute to-night for the last 
time. If this were not a first representation I should 
have left the theatre several days ago, but I did not 
wish to fail of my word.” 

“ Very right, young man,” said Schmucke, in his own 
language. “ But whom are you to marry? ” 

“ The daughter of Monsieur Grafl*, our host, the 
proprietor of the Hotel du Rhin. I have loved Made- 
moiselle Emilie for seven years ; she has read so many 
romantic novels that she has refused all offers for my 
sake, without an^’ idea of what may come of it. This 
young lady will be verj^ rich ; she is the only heiress of 
the Graffs, those tailors in the rue Richelieu. Fritz 
gives me five times the sum we made ducks and drakes 
with at Strasburg, — five hundred thousand francs ! 
He puts a million of francs into a banking-house, 
where Monsieur Graff*, the tailor, will also put five 
hundred thousand ; my bride’s father allows me to in- 
vest the dot,, which is two hundred and fifty thousand 
francs, in the same way, and he himself goes in as a 
sleeping partner for as much more. The house of 
Brunner, Schwab, & Co. will thus have a capital of 
two million five hundred thousand francs. Fritz has 
just bought shares to the amount of fifteen hundred 
thousand francs in the Bank of France, to guarantee 
our standing. It is not his whole fortune, for he has 
his father’s houses in Frankfort, which are rated at a 
million ; he has already rented the Grand Hotel de Hol- 
lande to a cousin of the Graff's.” 

“ You were looking rather gloomily at your friend,” 
answered Schmucke ; “ are you uneasy about him’ ” 

“ I am uneasy, — anxious about his happiness,” said 


86 


Cousin Pons, 


Wilhelm. “Look at him*, is that the face of a con- 
tented man ? I am afraid of Paris for him ; I would 
like to see him do as I am doing. The old devils may 
be roused again. Of our pair of heads, his was never 
the best weighted. That evening dress, that opera- 
glass, all worry me. If you only knew how diflScult 
it is to persuade Fritz to marry ! He has a horror of 
what these French people call ‘ paying court ’ to a wo- 
man. We shall have to launch him into the family 
life suddenly, just as in England they launch a man 
into eternity.” 

During the excitement which breaks forth at the 
conclusion of all new pieces, the first flute gave his in- 
vitation to the leader of the orchestra. Pons accepted 
joyfully. Schmucke saw, for the first time in three 
months, a smile upon the face of his friend. He 
brought him home to the rue de Normandie in perfect 
silence ; recognizing in that flash of joy the depth of 
the trouble that was gnawing into Pons. That a man 
so truly noble, so disinterested, so pure in feeling, 
should have such weaknesses ! — this was what petri- 
fied the stoic Schmucke, and his heart grew sad ; for 
he felt the necessity of renouncing the dailj" sight of his 
“ goot Bons” sitting opposite to him at table; he 
knew it must be done for Pons’s own sake, and he 
doubted if the sacrifice were possible. The thought 
drove him crazy. 

The proud silence maintained by Pons, in his refuge 
on the Aventinus of the rue de Normandie, had of 
course been observed. Madame de Marville, being 
delivered from her parasite, concerned herself little 
about him ; she thought, as did her charming daughter, 


Cousin Pons. 


87 


that the old man had discovered the trick played by 
the lovely Lili. Not so, however, with the president. 
Monsieur Camusot de Marville, a round, fat little 
man, had grown pompous since his advancement at 
court, admired Cicero, preferred the Opdra-Comique 
to the Italian opera, compared one actor with another, 
followed the crowd step by step, repeated as his own 
all the opinions of the ministerial journals, and in 
rendering judgment paraphrased the ideas of the last 
councillor who had spoken. This magistrate, whose 
traits of character were very well understood, and 
whose position obliged him to take a serious view of 
the affairs of life, was especially tenacious of family 
ties. Like most husbands who are ruled by their 
wives, the president asserted an independence in little 
things, which was respected by his wife. Though for 
as much as a month he accepted the empty reasons 
which Madame de Marville gave him to account for 
the disappearance of Pons, he ended by thinking it 
very strange that the old musician, a friend of forty 
years* standing, came no longer to the house, especially 
after making so important a gift as the fan of Madame 
de Pompadour. This fan, declared by Comte Pop- 
inot to be a rare masterpiece, won for Madame de 
Marville at the Tuileries, where the treasure was 
passed from hand to hand, a number of compliments, 
which flattered her vanity exceedingly ; people extolled 
the beauties of the ten ivory sticks, each of which 
showed carvings of exquisite delicacy. A Eussian 
lady (the Russians always think they are in Russia) 
offered Madame de Marville, in the drawing room of 
the Comtesse Popinot, six thousand francs for this 


88 


Cousin Pons. 


extraordinary fan, smiling to see it in such hands ; for 
it was, we must admit, the fan of a duchess. 

“ It can^t be denied that our poor cousin understands 
such foolish trifles,” said Cecile to her father, the day 
after this offer was made. 

“ ‘ Foolish trifles * ! ” exclaimed the president. “ Why, 
the Government is about to give three hundred thou- 
sand francs for the collection of the late Monsieur du 
Sommerard, and to spend, in conjunction with the city 
of Paris, nearly a million in buying and repairing the 
H6tel Cluny to hold the ‘ foolish trifles * 3’ou talk about. 
Those ‘ foolish trifles,’ my dear child, are often the only 
evidence we have of departed civilizations. An Etrus- 
can pot, a necklace, which are worth sometimes fortj’, 
sometimes fifty thousand francs, are ‘ foolish trifles * 
that reveal to our eyes the perfection of the arts at the 
time of the siege of Tro^’, and prove to us that the Etrus- 
cans were Trojans who had taken refuge in Itaty.” 

Such was the fat little president’s style of pleasantry ; 
he usuall3" took a tone of ponderous irony with his wife 
and daughter. 

“ The vast variety of knowledge which these ‘ foolish 
trifles ’ require, Cecile,” he resumed, “ is a science called 
archaeology. Archaeology" comprises sculpture, paint- 
ing, architecture, keramics, cabinet and ebony" work 
(which is a wholly modern art) , the goldsmith's trade, 
laces, tapestries, embroideries, in short, all the creations 
of human labor.” 

“ Then Cousin Pons must be quite a learned man? ” 
said Cecile. 

“Bless me! why doesn’t he come here now?” de- 
manded the president, with the air of a man roused to 


Cousin Pons, 


89 


a fact by the process of sundry smouldering thoughts 
suddenly striking home to his mind. 

“ He has probabh^ taken offence at some trifle/' said 
Madame de Marville. “Perhaps I was not grateful 
enough for the gift of the fan. I am, as you know, 
quite ignorant — ” 

“ You ! one of Servin’s best pupils ! " cried the presi- 
dent, — “ you don’t know Watteau ! ” 

“ I know David, Gerard, Gros, and Girodet and 
Guerin and Monsieur de Forbin and Turpin de Crisse.” 

“ You ought to have — ” 

“ Pray, what ought I to have done, monsieur? ” said 
his wife, looking at him with the air of the Queen of 
Sheba. 

“ You ought to have known all about Watteau, my 
dear ; he is very much the fashion,” said the president, 
with a humility which denoted his many obligations to 
his wife. 

This conversation took place a few da3^s before the 
first representation of the “ Devil’s Bride,” at which, 
as we have said, the whole orchestra was struck by the 
feeble health of the old leader. Before long, all the 
families accustomed to see Pons at their dinner-tables 
and to send him upon their errands made inquiries 
about him among themselves, and a great deal of 
uneasiness was felt in the circle where the good soul 
usually gravitated, which was not lessened by the fact 
that several persons saw him at his post in the theatre. 
Notwithstanding the pains with which Pons avoided his 
old friends when he met them, he at last came face to 
face with the late minister, Comte Popinot, at Monis- 
trol’s, — one of the daring and illustrious second-hand 


90 


Cousin Pons. 


dealers of the new boulevard Beaumarchais, mentioned 
by Pons to Madame de Marville, whose crafty enthu- 
siasm for the business runs up the price of curiosities 
from day to day, because, as they say, such treasures 
are getting so rare that there will soon be no more of 
them. 

“My dear Pons, why do we no longer see 3^011?” 
said Comte Popinot. “We miss you very much, and 
Madame Popinot does not know what to make of this 
desertion.” 

“ Monsieur le comte,” replied the old man, “ it was 
intimated to me, in the house of a relation, that at my 
age people are de trop in society’. I have never been 
received with much courtesy, but at least I was never 
insulted. I have asked nothing of any one,” he said, 
with the pride of an artist. “ In return for civilities, 
I have often made m^^self useful to those who received 
me. But it appears that I have made a mistake. I 
am expected to fetch and carry at every one’s beck and 
call, in return for the honor I receive in dining among 
my friends, my relations. Well ! I have resigned my 
place of ‘ poor relation.’ At home, every day, I have 
that which no table has offered me elsewhere, — a true 
friend.” 

These words, full of bitterness, which the old artist 
had the facultj’’ still further to enforce bj^ tone and 
gesture, so impressed the peer of France that he drew 
the worthy man aside and said to him, — 

“ My old friend, teU me what has happened. Con- 
fide to me who it is that has wounded you. You will 
allow me, I am sure, to point out to 3"ou that in my 
house no one has failed in pa^dng you proper respect. ” 


Cousin Pons. 


91 


“You are the only exception that I make,” said the 
poor man. “ Besides, were it otherwise, you are a 
great lord, a statesman, and your occupations would 
excuse everything.” 

Pons, subjected to the diplomatic tact which Popinot 
had acquired in the manipulation of men and public 
business, ended by relating his ill-usage in the house 
of Monsieur Camusot de Marville. Popinot took up 
the victim’s wrongs so warmly, that he went home 
and told the whole story to Madame Popinot, an ex- 
cellent and worthy woman, who made certain rep- 
resentations to Madame de Marville the first time 
they met each other. The count himself said a few 
words to the president, and a family explanation en- 
sued in the Camusot de Marville household. Though 
Camusot was not altogether master in his own home, 
his remonstrances were in this case too well founded 
on facts and justice not to compel his wife and daugh- 
ter to recognize the truth of them ; both admitted 
the wrong, but threw the blame upon the servants. 
The servants, called up and scolded, obtained their 
pardon only by full confessions, which proved to the 
president that Pons had had good reason to absent 
himself. Like the masters of all households ruled 
by the wives, Camusot displayed much marital and 
judicial dignity, declaring that all the servants should 
be sent away and should lose all the advantages 
their long services might deserve, if in future his 
Cousin Pons, and all others who did him the honor 
to come to his house, were not treated as he him- 
self was treated. This last remark made Madeleine 
smile. 


92 


Cousin Pons. 


“ You have but one chance for forgiveness,” said 
the president, “ and that is, to make your excuses to 
my cousin and ask his pardon. Go and tell him that 
your situation in my house depends entirely on him, 
and that I shall send you away if he cannot forgive 
you.” 


Cousin Pons, 


9b 


IX. 

IN WHICH PONS PRESENTS TO MADAME DE MAPvVILLE AN 
ARTICLE FAR MORE PPJSCTOUS THAN A FAN. 

The next day the president went off at an early hour 
to pay a visit to his cousin before the sitting of the 
court. The apparition of Monsieur le president de 
Marville, ushered in by Madame Cibot, was an event. 
Pons, who received that honor for the first time, fore- 
saw an apology. 

“ My dear cousin,” said the president after the formal 
greeting was over, “ I have at last learned the cause of 
your absence. Your conduct increases, if possible, the 
esteem I feel for you. I shall say but one word. My 
servants are dismissed. My wife and daughter are in 
despair ; they wish to see you and to make you an ex- 
planation. In all this, my dear cousin, there is only 
one innocent person, and that is an old judge. Do 
not punish me for the thoughtlessness of a giddy young 
girl, whose heart was set on dining with the Popinots ; 
above all, when I have come myself to make our peace 
with you, and to admit that all the fault is on our side. 
A friendship of thirty-six years, even supposing it 
changed, has still its rights. Come, sign a peace by 
dining with us to-night ! ” 

Pons involved himself in a diffuse reply, and finally 
contrived to explain to his cousin that he was to be 


94 


Cousin Pons, 


present that evening at the marriage of a musician of 
his orchestra, who was about to discard his flute and 
become a banker. 

“Well, then, to-morrow.’* 

“My dear cousin, Madame la comtesse Popinot has 
done me the honor to send me a letter of such cordial 
invitation that — ” 

“ The day after to-morrow, then.” 

“ On that day the partner of my flrst flute, a German, 
a Monsieur Brunner, gives a return party to the bride 
and bridegroom.” 

“You are well worthy of such contention for the 
pleasure of receiving you,” said the president. “ Well, 
then, Sunday next, — a week’s notice, as they say at the 
Palais.” 

“ But that day we dine with Monsieur Graff, the 
flute’s father-in-law.” 

“ Then Saturday! Between now and then, you will 
have time to comfort a little girl who has shed many 
tears for her fault. God asks nothing but repentance, 
and you must not be more exacting with poor little 
Cecile than the Father of us all.” 

Pons, taken on his weak side, fell back into formulas 
that were more than polite, and accompanied the presi- 
dent to the very landing of the staircase. An hour later, 
all the servants made their appearance at his lodgings. 
The}^ behaved after the manner of servants, and were 
cringing and wheedling ; they even wept 1 Madeleine 
took Monsieur Pons apart, and threw herself at his 
feet. 

“ It was I, monsieur, who was the guilty party ; and 
monsieur knows how I love him,” she said, bursting 


Cousin Pons. 


95 


into tears. It was revenge, which made my blood 
boil ; and monsieur must lay the blame for all this mis- 
erable business to that. We shall lose our annuities ! 
Monsieur, I was beside myself, and I cannot let my 
fellow-servants suffer for my folly. I see, now, that 
fate has not destined me for monsieur. I have grown 
reasonable ; I see that I had too much ambition, — but 
I love you, monsieur. For ten years I have thought 
of no happiness but of making yours, — of taking care 
of you. What a noble fate ! Oh ! if monsieur only 
knew how I love him ! Monsieur must have seen it in 
all my bad ways. If I died to-morrow, what do you 
think would be found ? — my will drawn in your favor, 
monsieur, — yes, monsieur ; it is put away in my trunk 
under my jewels.’’ 

By sounding this chord, Madeleine put the old bach- 
elor through those enjoyments of vanity which come from 
the knowledge that we have inspired a passion, even 
though the passion itself is displeasing. After nobly 
forgiving Madeleine, he took the whole household back 
into favor, and promised to request his cousin Madame 
de Marville to keep them in her service. Pons felt with 
ineffable delight that he was restored to his habitual 
enjoyments without committing any mean or unworthy 
action. People had come to him ; the dignity of his 
character would be enhanced. But when it came to 
explaining his triumph to his friend Schmucke, he saw 
with pain that his other self was sad, and full of unutx 
tered doubts. Nevertheless, when the good German 
saw the sudden change in Pons’s countenance, he ended 
by cheerful^ sacrificing the happiness he had enjoyed of 
having his friend all to himself for nearly four months. 


96 


Cousin Pons. 


Moral maladies have one great advantage over phy- 
sical maladies ; they can be cured instantl}’ , by the fulfil- 
ment of the desire the privation of which gave birth to 
them. Pons, after this morning, was no longer the same 
being. The sad and broken old man made wa}^ for the 
contented Pons, who had lately carried the fan of Ma- 
dame de Pompadour to his cousin’s wife. Schmucke, 
however, feU into long reveries over this transformation, 
without comprehending it ; for genuine stoicism can 
never explain to itself French social subserviency. Pons 
was a true Frenchman of the Empire, in whom the gal- 
lantry of the last century was mingled with the devotion 
to women expressed in the celebrated ballad, “ Partant 
pour la Syrie,” and others. Schmucke buried his 
trouble in his heart under the flowers of German philos- 
ophy ; but at the end of a week he had grown quite 
yellow, and Madame Cibot employed much artifice to 
get him to see the “ doctor of the quarter.” The physi- 
cian feared an icterus, and left Madame Cibot con- 
vulsed with terror at the learned word, which merely 
means jaundice. 

That evening, perhaps for the first time, the two 
friends dined out together. To Schmucke it was like 
a trip into Germany ; for Johann Graflf, the master of 
the Hotel du Rhin, and his daughter Emilie, Wolfgang 
Graff the tailor, and his wife, Fritz Brunner and Wil- 
helm Schwab were all Germans. Pons and the notarj'- 
were the only Frenchmen admitted to the banquet. 
The tailor and his wife, who owned a fine house in the 
rue de Richelieu between the rue Neuve-des-Petits- 
Champs and the rue Villedo, had educated their niece ; 
whose father feared, not without reason, to let her 


Cousin Pons. 


97 


come in contact with the people of all kinds who fre- 
quented his hotel. These worthy people, loving the 
child as if she were their own daughter, gave up their 
ground-floor to the young couple. There, too, the 
banking-house of Brunner, Schwab, and Co. was to be 
established. As these arrangements were made a month 
back, to give time for Brunner, the author of all this 
felicity, to come into possession of his inheritance, the 
suite of rooms of the wedded pair had been handsomely 
restored and refurnished by the famous tailor. The 
counting-rooms of the bank were placed in a wing which 
connected a magnificent warehouse with the old man- 
sion standing between the court and garden. 

As they walked from the rue de Normandie to the 
rue de Richelieu, Pons extracted from the absent-minded 
Schmucke the details of the story of the modern prodi- 
gal for whom Death had killed the fatted inn-keeper. 
Pons, just reconciled to his nearest relations, was speed- 
ily seized with the notion of marrying Fritz Brunner 
to Cecile de Marville. It so chanced that the notary of 
the brothers Graff was the son-in-law and successor of 
Cardot, having been assistant head-clerk in his office 
before succeeding to the business. They were all “ rela- 
tions ” with whom Pons frequently dined. 

“ Ah ! is that you. Monsieur Berthier?” said the old 
musician, extending his hand to his ex-amphitryon. 

“ Why don’t you ever come and dine with us now?” 
asked the notary. ‘ ‘ My wife was quite uneasy about 
you. We saw you at the first representation of the 
‘ Devil’s Bride,’ and our uneasiness was turned into 
curiosity.” 

“Old men are sensitive,” answered Pons. “They 
7 


98 


Cousin Pons. 


have the misfortune of being a century behind the times. 
But how can they help it ? Is n’t it enough to represent 
that in which they were born ? they can never belong tc' 
that in which they die.” 

“Ah!” said the notary, with a knowing air, “we 
can’t keep pace with two centuries at the same time.” 

“ Look here ! ” said the musician, drawing the young 
notarj" into a corner, “ suppose you were to many my 
cousin Cecile de Marville to — ” 

“Ah! why should I?” exclaimed the notary. “In 
this century, when luxury has got down to the porter’s 
lodge, young men hesitate to couple their fate with that 
of a daughter of a judge in the Cour-royale, when he 
will only give her a dot of a hundred thousand francs. 
There is no such thing now-a-days as a woman who 
costs her husband less than three thousand francs a j^ear ; 
that is, in the class to which the husband of Mademoi- 
selle de Marville must belong. The income of such a 
dot won’t pa}" the costs of dress for such a wife. A 
young man, with fifteen or twenty thousand francs a 
year, lives in a pretty entresol ; the world does n’t ex- 
pect him to make a splurge ; he can live with one ser- 
vant. He puts all his means into his pleasures ; he has 
no proprieties to consider, except those his tailor takes 
charge of; courted by all the designing mothers, he 
is one of the kings of Parisian fashion. On the other 
hand, a wife must have an establishment. She wants 
a carriage of her own ; if she goes to the theatre she 
must have a box, whereas a bachelor can take a stall. 
In short, she is the absorber of the fortune which the 
unmarried man formerly spent upon himself. Now, 
lust think of a husband worth thirty thousand francs a 


Cousin Pons, 


99 


year. As the world is now, a rich bachelor, if he mar- 
ries, becomes a poor devil who has to consider whether 
he can afford to go to Chantilly. Bring on the children, 
and poverty is felt at once. Now, as Monsieur and 
Madame de Marville are barely fift}", expectations have 
fifteen or twenty 3^ears to run ; no man wants to carry 
them in his purse for that length of time ; and let me 
tell you the gangrene of such calculation is so deep in 
the heart of the 3’oung rattle-pates who dance the polka 
with the lorettes at Mabille, that they all study both 
sides of the problem without needing a notary to explain 
matters. Between ourselves. Mademoiselle de Marville 
leaves a young fellow’s heart too calm for his head to 
get turned, and all her pretenders have made these 
anti-matrimonial refiections. If some young man in 
the enjoyment of his reason and twenty thousand francs 
a year does appear on the horizon as a possible alli- 
ance, satisfactory" to ambitious ideas. Mademoiselle de 
Marville has so little charm — ” 

“Why so?” asked the astonished musician. 

“ Ah ! — ” exclaimed the notary. “ All young men, 
now-a-days, even if they are as ill-favored as you and 
I, my dear Pons, have the impertinence to require a dot 
of six hundred thousand francs, a well-born young 
woman, very handsome, very well brought up, without 
defects, — a paragon, in short.” 

“Then you think it will be very hard to marry my 
cousin ? ” 

“She will stay unmarried just so long as her father 
and mother can’t make up their minds to give her 
Marville for a portion. If they had chosen to do this, 
she would have been Vicomtesse Popinot by this time. 


100 


Cousin Pons, 


But here is Monsieur Brunner ; now we must read the 
deed of association for the house of Brunner & Co. and 
the marriage contract.” 

As soon as the introductions and the compliments 
were over, Pons, invited by the parents to sign the 
contract, listened to the reading of the deeds, and then 
about half-past five o'clock the company proceeded to 
the dining-room. The dinner was one of those sump- 
tuous repasts which the merchant classes give when 
they lay aside all thoughts of economy ; in this case it 
testified to the relations which Graff of the Hotel du 
Rhin held with the chief caterers of Paris. Never did 
Pons or Schmucke enjoy such fare. There were dishes 
that “beguiled the mind,” — German nudeln of un- 
speakable delicacy, smelts incomparably fried ; a ferra 
from Geneva with a true Genovese sauce, and a cream 
for the plum-pudding which would have astonished the 
famous doctor who, they say, invented it in London. 
It was ten o’clock before the company left the table. 
The amount of Rhine wine and French wine that was 
imbibed would amaze a dandy, for no one knows the 
quantity of liquid a German can absorb while sitting 
calm and tranquil. We must dine in Germany, and 
see the bottles coming on one after the other, like wave 
after wave fiowing in upon the lovely shores of the 
Mediterranean, and disappearing as if Germans had 
the absorbing powers of sand or sponge ; but all deco- 
rously, without French clatter. The talk remains as 
virtuous as the discourse of a usurer ; the faces flush 
like those of a bridal couple in the frescos of Cornelius 
or Schnor, yet imperceptibly; and recollections rise, 
like the smoke of their pipes, slowly and deliberately. 


Cousin Pons» 


101 


Towards half-past ten Pons and Schmucke found 
themselves sitting on a bench in the garden on either 
side of their former flute, without knowing exactly 
how they got there, or what had led them to explain 
all the particulars of their characters, their opinions, 
and their misfortunes. In the midst of this jumble of 
disclosures Wilhelm told, with much vigor and vinous 
eloquence, how anxious he was to marry Fritz. 

“What should you say to something like this for 
your friend Brunner?” cried Pons in Wilhelm’s ear: 
“ A charming young girl, sensible, twenty-four years of 
age, belonging to a highly distinguished family, — the 
father occupying a very high position as a magistrate, 
— a hundred thousand francs for a dot, and expecta- 
tions of a million ! ” 

“Stop!” cried Schwab. “I’ll go and speak to 
Fritz about it at once.” 

And the two musicians saw Brunner and his friend 
promenading up and down before their eyes, listening 
alternately to each other’s remarks. Pons — whose 
head felt rather heavy, and who, without being abso- 
lutely drunk, had as much lightness in his ideas as he 
had weight in the capsule that contained them — looked 
at Fritz through the diaphanous cloud exhaled bj^ wine, 
and chose to see on his countenance the aspirations of 
married happiness. Schwab shortly brought up and 
presented to Monsieur Pons his friend and partner, who 
thanked the old gentleman cordially for the interest he 
deigned to take in him. A conversation followed, in 
which the two celibates — Pons and Schmucke — cried 
up marriage, and declared, without malicious meaning, 
that it was “ the end of man.” When the ices and 


102 


Cousin Pons. 


the tea and the punch and the cakes were served in the 
new appartement of the bride and bridegroom on the 
ground-floor, the hilarity of these worthy people — most 
of them drunk — rose to its highest pitch when they 
were informed by Schwab that the head-partner of the 
new banking-house was about to follow the example of 
his associate. 

Schmucke and Pons returned home along the boule- 
vard at two in the morning, philosophizing, till they 
cracked their brains, on the musical harmony of all 
things here below. 

On the morrow Pons went to visit his cousin, Madame 
de Marville, full of the deepest joy at the thought of 
rendering good for evil. Poor, dear, noble soul ! He 
did indeed attain to the sublime, as every one will agree 
because we are now living in an age when they give the 
Montyon prize to those who do their duty and follow 
the precepts of the gospel. Ah ! they will feel under 
immense obligations to their poor relation,” he said to 
himself as he turned the corner of the rue de Choiseul. 

A man less absorbed than Pons in his own satisfac- 
tion, — a man of the world, a suspicious man, would have 
taken note of the mother and daughter at his re-entrance 
into the house. But the poor musician was a mere 
child, an artist full of simple naivete, unknowing of 
an3'thing but moral excellence, just as he knew only the 
beautiful in art. He was delighted with the caresses 
which Madame de Marville and her daughter bestowed 
upon him. The worthy soul, who had seen vaudeville, 
drama, and comedy played for a dozen years before his 
eyes, was unable to perceive the grimaces of the social 
corned}^, — to which, perhaps, he had become blunted. 


Cousin Pons, 


103 


Those who frequent Parisian salons, and who have al- 
ready perceived the cold, dry harshness of body and soul 
in Madame de Marville, — eager only for honors, and 
enraged at her own virtue, — and who have felt her hy- 
pocritical piety and the haughtiness of a nature accus- 
tomed to control every one about her, can well imagine 
the hidden hatred she felt for her husband’s cousin ever 
since the day when she put herself in the wrong. All her 
demonstrations of friendship, and those of her daughter, 
covered a formidable desire for revenge, evidently set 
aside for the time being. For the first time in her life 
Amelie de Marville had been openly to blame in the 
eyes of the husband over whom she domineered. More- 
over, she was now compelled to appear cordial to the 
author of her defeat. There is no analogy to this con- 
dition of mind except in the rancorous hypocrisies which 
last for years in the sacred college of cardinals, or in the 
chapters of religious orders. 

At three o’clock, the hour at which the president 
came back from the court-room. Pons had scarcely fin- 
ished telling the marvellous tale of his acquaintance with 
Monsieur Frederic Brunner, of the wedding-feast which 
lasted till morning, and all else concerning the aforesaid 
Brunner. Cecile had gone straight to the point b^" in- 
quiring how Frederic dressed, what sort of figure and 
style he had, and also the color of his hair and eyes ; 
and when she had convinced herself that his appearance 
was distinguished, she admired the generosity of his 
character. 

“ To give five hundred thousand francs to a friend in 
misfortune ! Oh, mamma, I shall have a carriage and 
a box at the opera 1 ” 


104 


Cousin Pons. 


As for Madame de Marville, her thoughts were ex- 
pressed in one sentence. 

“ My dear little girl, you may be married in a fort- 
night.” 

All mothers call their daughters “little girls” when 
the}" are twenty-three years old. 

“But,” said the president, “we must have time to 
make proper inquiries. I will never give my daughter 
for the asking.” 

“ As for inquiries,” remarked Pons, “ Berthier drew 
up the deeds ; and as to the young man himself, you 
remember what you told me, my dear cousin?” he 
added, turning to Madame de Marville. “ Well, he is 
over forty, and half his head is bald. He wants to get 
a family haven from the storms of life ; and I have not 
dissuaded him. All tastes are in human nature.” 

‘ ‘ All the more reason to see Monsieur Frederic Brun- 
ner,” said the president. “I don’t wish to give my 
daughter to a valetudinarian.” 

“Well, my dear cousin,” said Pons, still addressing 
Madame de Marville, “ you can, if you like, see and 
judge of my aspirant ; for, with your views, one inter- 
view will suffice.” 

Cecile and her mother made a gesture of delight. 

“ Frederic, who is quite a distinguished amateur, 
has begged me to let him see my little collection,” con- 
tinued Cousin Pons. “You have never seen my pic- 
tures, my curiosities : come at the same time. You 
can appear as two ladies brought by my friend 
Schmucke ; and you can make acquaintance with the 
intended without being compromised. Frederic shall 
be kept in ignorance of who you are.” 


Cousin Pons. 


106 


“ A very good plan ! ” cried the president. 

The consideration now shown to the despised para- 
site may be imagined. On that day the poor man was 
Madame de Marville’s cousin ; the happy mother, sink- 
ing her hatred under waves of joy, gave him looks and 
words and smiles which sent the worthy soul into an 
ecstasy at the thought of the good he was doing, and 
the future which he saw opening before him. Should 
he not find at the Brunners, the Schwabs, the Grafls, 
just such dinners as the one he had eaten the night be- 
fore ? He saw a land fiowing with milk and hone}", and 
a maiwellous array of “ covered dishes,” gastronomic 
surprises, and exquisite wines. 

“ If our Cousin Pons brings about such a marriage,” 
said the president to his wife, when Pons had departed, 
“ we ought to give him an annuity equal to his salary as 
leader of the orchestra.” 

“ Certainly,” answered Madame de Marville. 

Cecile was commissioned, in case she liked the 
young man, to make the musician accept this ignoble 
munificence. 

The next day the president, anxious to have authentic 
proof of Monsieur Frederic Brunner’s property, went to 
see the notary. Berthier, informed of his coming by 
Madame de Marville, had sent for his new client Schwab, 
the ex-flute. Dazzled by such a distinguished alliance 
for his friend (Germans all value social distinctions, for 
in Germany a woman is called Mrs. General, Mrs. 
Councillor, Mrs. Advocate), Schwab was as fluent as a 
collector of bric-h-brac who thinks he is about to trick 
dealer. 

Above all,” said the father of Cecile to Brunner’s 


106 


Cousin Pons. 


representative, “ as I intend to give my daughter a deed 
of the estate of Marville, I wish to marry her under the 
dotal system. Monsieur Brunner must put a million of 
francs into land, to increase the Marville property, and 
make a real estate settlement which shall secure my 
daughter and her children from the uncertainties of a 
bank.” 

Berthier stroked his chin, thinking to himself “ the 
president is doing it handsomely.” 

Schwab, after getting the dotal system fully explained 
to him, answered heartily for his friend. That clause 
pledged the very thing he had often heard Fritz desire, 
and secured him against ever falling back into poverty. 

‘ ‘ There are at this moment about twelve hundred 
thousand francs* worth of farm and meadow lands for 
sale,’* said the president. 

“ A million of shares in the Bank of France will be quite 
sufficient to guarantee us,” said Schwab. “ Fritz does 
not wish to put more than two millions into the busi- 
ness ; he will do what 3'Ou wish. Monsieur le president.” 

The president made his womenkind almost frantic 
with delight when they heard his news. Never did so 
rich a capture fall so readily into the conjugal net. 

“ You shall be Madame Brunner de Marville,” said 
the father to his daughter. “ I shall get your husband 
to agree to add ^^our name to his, and, later on, he can 
get letters of naturalization. If I become peer of France 
he shall succeed me.” 

Madame de Marville employed five da^-s in preparing 
her daughter. On the da^^ of the interview she dressed 
Cecile with her own hands, equipping her with as much 
care as the admiral of the blue bestowed upon the 


Couiin Pom, 


107 


armament of the Queen of England’s pleasure-yacht 
when she started on her trip to Germany. 

Pons and Schmucke, on their side, cleaned and dusted 
the museum, the whole appartement, and the furniture, 
with the agility of sailors swabbing the decks of an 
admiral’s flag-ship. Not a speck of dust was left on 
the wood-carvings ; all the brasses shone. The glass 
over the pastels was rubbed clear, and gave to view the 
works of Latour and Greuze, and Liautard, the illustri- 
ous painter of the Chocolate-girl, — the gem of this style 
of painting, whose beauty is, alas ! so fugitive. The in- 
imitable polish of the Florentine bronzes flashed its 
rays. The colored glass in the windows glowed with 
splendid color. Each treasure sparkled in its own 
place, and uttered its own note to the soul in this con- 
cert of masterpieces arranged by two musicians, the 
one as true a poet as the other. 


108 


Qouiin Fom. 


X. 

A GERMAN IDEA. 

Clever enough to avoid an entrance upon the as- 
sembled company, the ladies arrived first and took pos- 
session of the ground. Pons presented Schmucke to 
his relations, in whose eyes the worthy German seemed 
an idiot. The two ignoramuses with their minds full of 
a bridegroom who was quadruply a millionnaire, paid 
very little attention to the art elucidations of Pons. They 
glanced with careless eyes at the enamels of Petitot, 
which were spread on the red-velvet ground of three 
marvellous frames. The fiower- pieces of Van Huysum 
and David de Heim, the insects of Abraham Mignon, the 
Van Eycks, the Albert Diirers, the genuine Cranachs, 
the Giorgiones, Sebastian del Piombos, Backhuysens, 
Hobbemas, and G^ricaults, — all those marvels of paint- 
ing did not even prick their curiosity ; they were waiting 
for the sun which was to light up this wealth. The 
beauty of certain Etruscan jewels and the actual value 
of the snuff-boxes did, however, surprise them, and they 
were expressing civil raptures over the Florentine 
bronzes when Madame Cibot announced Monsieur 
Brunner. The ladies refrained from turning round, but 
they took advantage of a superb Venice glass framed in 
a huge mass of carved ebony, to examine this phoenix 
of matrimonial aspirants. 


Cousin Pons. 


109 


Frederic, warned by Wilhelm, had brushed together 
his few remaining hairs. He wore a becoming pair of 
trousers of a soft though dark shade, a silk waistcoat 
of supreme elegance and the newest cut, a shirt of the 
finest linen, hemstitched in Holland, and a blue cravat 
with white lines. His watch-chain came from Florent 
and Chanor, and so did the knob of his cane. As for 
his coat, Pere Graff himself had cut it out of his best 
cloth ; and a pair of gants de suede proclaimed the man 
who had already squandered the fortune of his mother. 
From the polish of his varnished boots it was easy to 
guess at the little coupe and pair of horses standing be- 
fore the door, even if the ears of the two women had not 
already heard it rolling along the street. 

When the rake of twenty is the chrysalis of a banker, 
he develops at forty into an observer, all the more keen 
because Brunner had learned the advantage a German 
can obtain by apparent simplicity. On this occasion, 
he put on the reflective air of a man who is making 
his choice between family life on the one hand and 
the dissipations of a bachelor on the other. Such an 
expression in a Gallicized German seemed to Cecile 
the very height of the romantic. She saw another 
Werther in the nephew of Virlaz. Where is the young 
girl who fails to make her own little romance out of the 
history of her marriage? Cecile thought herself the 
happiest of women when Brunner, examining the rare 
works of art collected through a period of forty years, 
grew very enthusiastic, and estimated them for the first 
time at their real value. 

‘ ‘ He is a poet,” thought Mademoiselle de Marville. 
“ He imagines millions in these things.” 


110 


Cousin Pons, 


Now, a poet is a man who does not calculate, who 
will leave his wife mistress of his fortune, — a man 
easy to lead, and to amuse with trifles. 

Every pane of the two windows in the old man’s 
room was of Swiss painted glass, the least valuable of 
which was worth a thousand francs ; and there were 
sixteen of such treasures, which amateurs travel in 
search of now-a-days. In 1815 these panes cost from 
six to ten francs. The price of the sixty pictures 
contained in this rare collection, all of them pure 
masterpieces, never retouched and perfectly authentic, 
could not be ascertained except in the heat of competi- 
tion. Inclosing each picture was a frame of immense 
value, showing specimens of every workmanship, — 
the Venetian frame, with its heavy ornamentation, like 
that of the present English silver-ware ; the Roman 
frame, so remarkable for what artists call the fla-fla ; 
the Spanish frame, with its bold leafage ; the Flemish 
and German frames, with their naive figures ; the tor- 
toise-shell frame, inlaid with pewter, brass, mother-of- 
pearl, and ivorj" ; the ebony frame, the box- wood frame, 
the brass frame, the Louis XIII., Louis XIV., Louis XV., 
and Louis XVI. frames, — in short a unique collection 
of the finest models. Pons, more fortunate than the 
museums of Dresden and Vienna, possessed a frame 
made by the famous Brustholme, the Michael Angelo 
of wood-carving. 

Mademoiselle de Marville, very naturally, asked for 
explanations about each new treasure. She made Brun- 
ner teach her to understand these marvels ; and she 
was so artless in her exclamations, she appeared so 
delighted to hear from Frederic about the value and 


Cousin Pons* 


111 


the beauty of the pictures, the carvings, and the 
bronzes, that the German thawed out, — his face became 
really youthful. In short, on both sides they went some* 
what further than was intended at the first interview ; 
especially one which was held to be accidental. 

The meeting lasted three hours. Brunner offered his 
hand to Mademoiselle Cecile to assist her down the 
staircase. As she went down with judicious slowness, 
Cecile, still conversing on the fine arts, expressed her 
surprise at the enthusiasm of her admirer for the curios 
of her cousin Pons. 

“ Do you really think we have just seen a great deal 
of wealth? ” she asked. 

“Eh! mademoiselle, if your cousin would only sell 
me his collection, I would pay him to-night eight hun- 
dred thousand francs for it; and I should not be 
making a bad bargain. The pictures alone would bring 
more at a public sale.’* 

“ I believe it, if you tell me so,” she answered ; 

and it must be true, because j^ou care chiefly for such 
things.” 

“ Oh, mademoiselle ! ” exclaimed Brunner, “my sole 
reply to that reproach is to beg Madame de Marville’s 
permission to call upon her, for the happiness of seeing 
you again.” 

“ How clever she is, the little thing ! ” thought Ma- 
dame de Marville, who was following at the heels of her 
daughter. “ With the greatest pleasure, monsieur,” 
she said aloud. “ I hope you will come with our Cousin 
Pons on Monday, at the dinner hour. My husband, 
the president, will be delighted to make your acquain- 
tance. Thank 3'Ou, cousin,” she whispered, and she 


112 


Cousin Pons. 


pressed Pons’s arm so significantly that the sacramental 
phrase “ we are one for life and death ” would scarcely 
have seemed to him more binding. She actually em- 
braced him with the glance which accompanied the 
words, “ Thank you, cousin.” 

After putting the young lady into the glass coach, 
and watching it till it disappeared round the corner of 
the rue Chariot, Brunner talked bric-a-brac to Pons, 
who talked marriage. 

“ So you don’t see any objection?” said Pons. 

“Ah!” replied Brunner, “the girl is insignificant, 
and the mother is rather sharp, — we ’ll see about it.” 

‘ ‘ There ’s a fine fortune to come,” remarked Pons ; 
“ over a million.” 

“Next Monday, then!” repeated the millionnaire. 
“ If you are willing to sell your collection, I am ready 
to give you five or six hundred thousand francs for it.” 

“ Ah ! ” cried the old man, who did not know he was 
80 rich. “But I could not part with what makes me 
happy. I could only sell my collection to be delivered 
after my death.” 

“ Well, we will see about it.” 

“Two affairs on hand ! ” said Pons to himself, though 
he thought chiefly of the marriage. 

Brunner bowed to Pons and disappeared, carried off 
by his elegant equipage. Pons watched the departure 
of the little coupe without noticing Remonencq, who 
was smoking on his threshold. 

The same evening Madame de Marville met all the 
Popinots at her father-in-law’s, having gone to consult 
him on the subject of the marriage. In her desire to 
satisfy a small vengeance very natural to the heart of 


Cousin Pons, 


113 


mothers who have failed to capture a son and heir, 
Madame de Marville let it be known that Cecile was 
about to make a splendid marriage. 

“ Who is Cecile going to marry? ” went from lip to 
lip ; and Madame de Marville, not intending to betray 
herself, gave so many hints, whispered so many confi- 
dences (which were confirmed, be it said, by Madame 
Berthier), that on the morrow the tale took the following 
shape in the bourgeois empyrean, where Pons was once 
more accomplishing his gastronomic evolutions. 

Cecile de Marville was about, they said, to marry a 
young German who had made himself a banker out of 
pure generosity, for he was worth four millions ; he was a 
hero of romance, a perfect Werther, charming, kind- 
hearted, who had sown his wild oats and had fallen dis- 
tractedly in love with Cecile. It was love at first sight, 
and all the more marked because when they met she 
was rivalled by all the painted madonnas collected by 
her cousin Pons, etc. 

The succeeding day several persons called to congrat- 
ulate the family, solely to find out if the golden goose 
reall}' existed ; thereupon Madame de Marville made 
a series of admirable variations on the theme, which 
mothers would do well to consult, as in former ■da3’s 
they consulted the “ Complete Letter- writer.” 

“ No marriage is actually made,” she said to Madame 
Chiffreville, “ until we get back from the church and 
the mairie / and so far, the matter has scarcelj^ gone be- 
yond the preliminaries. I depend upon your friendship 
not to speak of our hopes.” 

“You are most fortunate, madame ; marriages are 
very difficult to arrange, now-a-days.” 

8 


114 


Cousin Pons, 


“ Ah ! it was all done by accident ; but marriages are 
often made in that wa3^” 

“So 3’ou are really going to marry C^cile?” said 
Madame Cardot. 

“Yes,” replied Madame de Marville, full}’ compre- 
hending the spitefulness of the “really.” “We are 
fastidious ; and that has delayed Cecile’s marriage. But 
at last we have found all we wanted, — fortune, amiabil- 
ity, good character, and good looks. My dear little girl 
deserves them all. Monsieur Brunner is a charming 
man, very distinguished ; he loves luxury, he under- 
stands life, he adores Cecile and loves her sincerely ; 
and therefore, in spite of his millions, she accepts him. 
We did not really expect so much, — but such advan- 
tages are not to be despised.” 

“It is not so much the fortune as the affection in- 
spired by my daughter which has influenced us,” she 
said to Madame Lebas. “ Monsieur Brunner is in such 
hurry that he wants the marriage to take place without 
any legal delays.” 

“ He is a stranger — ” 

“Yes, madame ; and I frankly admit that I am glad 
of it. It is not so much a son-in-law as a son that 
I am getting in Monsieur Brunner. His delicacy is 
really delightful. You can’t think with what readi- 
ness he agreed to marry under the dotal system. 
That is a great security for the family. He has bought 
twelve thousand francs’ worth of meadow-lands around 
Marville.” 

Another day there were fresh variations on the same 
theme. Monsieur Brunner did everything in princely 
style ; he never counted costs ; if Monsieur de Marville 


Cousin Pons, 


115 


was able to obtain letters of naturalization for him (and 
the government clearly owed the president that little 
bit of patronage) he would in the end become a peer of 
France. The exact amount of his fortune was not 
known, but he had the finest horses and equipages in 
all Paris, etc. 

The pleasure the Camusots took in proclaiming their 
hopes was proof enough that the triumph was unhoped 
for. 

Immediately after the interview at Cousin Pons’s, the 
president, prompted by his wife, invited the minister of 
justice, his colleague on the bench, and the procureur- 
general to dine with him on the day he was to receive this 
phoenix of sons-in-law. The three great men accepted 
the invitation, though it was given at short notice ; for 
each understood the part the father of a family wanted 
them to play, and they readily came to his assistance. 
In France, people are always very willing to help the 
mother of a family in fishing for a rich son-in-law. The 
Comte and Comtesse Popinot also lent their presence to 
complete the glory of the occasion, although the invi- 
tation seemed to them in bad taste. There were, in 
all, eleven guests. Cecile’s grandfather, old Monsieur 
Camusot, and his wife, were of course not absent from 
the dinner, which was intended, through the distin- 
guished position of the guests, to definitely commit 
Monsieur Brunner, — announced, as we have seen, as 
one of the richest capitalists in all Germany, a man of 
great taste (for he loved the “ little girl ”), and the future 
rival of the Nucingens, Kellers, and du Tillets. 

“It is our family da}’,” said Madame de Marville, 
with well-studied simplicity, to the individual she looked 


116 


Cousin Pons. 


upon as her son-in-law, as she told him who the other 
guests were to be. “ None but our intimates will be 
here. First, the father of my husband, who has been 
promised, as you know, a peerage ; then Monsieur le 
comte and Madame la comtesse Popinot, whose son was 
not rich enough for Cecile, — but we are not the less good 
friends ; the minister of justice, my husband’s colleague 
on the bench, and the procureur-general ; in short, 
all our friends. We shall be obliged to dine a little 
later than usual, because of the Chamber, which is 
never up till six o’clock.” 

Bmnner looked significant!}’ at Pons, and Pons 
rubbed his hands, as if to say, “ Such are our friends — 
my friends ! ” 

Madame de Marville, clever manager that she was, 
had something special to say to her cousin, so as to 
leave Cecile tete-k-tete for a moment with her Werther. 
Cecile chattered a good deal, and managed to let Fre- 
deric see a German dictionary, a German grammar, and 
a Goethe, which she had hidden. 

‘ ‘ Ah ! you are studying German ? ” said Brunner, 
coloring. 

None but a French woman la3’S such a trap. 

“ Oh ! ” she exclaimed, “ how malicious j’ou are ! It 
is not fair, monsieur, to spy into my secret places. I 
do wish to read Goethe in the original,” she added ; “I 
have studied German for the last two years.” 

‘‘You must find the grammar verj^hard to understand ; 
I see 3^ou have onl}" cut ten pages,” remarked Brunner, 
naively. 

Cecile, confused, turned aside to conceal her blushes. 
A German never resists that sort of demonstration ; he 


Cousin Pons, 


117 


took Cecile by the hand and looked at her, as the be- 
trothed in the novels of Auguste Lafontaine, of modest 
memory, may have looked at each other. 

“ You are angelic ! ’’ he said. 

Cecile made a coquettish little gesture, as if to say, 
“ Ah, and you ! — who would not love you? ” Then 
she whispered in her mother’s ear, as the latter returned 
with Pons, “ Mamma, all goes well ! ” 

The aspect of a familj^ at such a crisis is not to be 
described. All the guests were glad to see a mother 
lay hold of a good match. They congratulated with 
ambiguous words and double-barrelled meaning first the 
lover, who pretended not to understand them, then 
Cecile, who understood everything, and also Madame de 
Marville, who went about collecting compliments. Every 
drop of Pons’s blood rang in his ears, and he fancied he 
saw the footlights of his own theatre when Cecile, in a 
low voice and with ingenuous diJSidence, told him of 
her father’s intentions as to the annuity of twelve hun- 
dred francs, — a benefaction which the old artist posi- 
tively declined, giving as a reason the revelation which 
Brunner had made to him of the real value of his 
collection. 

The minister, the chief-justice, \hQ procureur- general^ 
and the Popinots departed, leaving none but old Mon- 
sieur Camusot, and Monsieur Cardot the former notary, 
assisted by his son-in-law Berthier. The worthy Pons, 
feeling that it was now a family party, thanked Monsieur 
and Madame de Marville very awkwardly for the offer 
which Cecile had just made to him. Simple-hearted 
being ! such men are all alike, and follow their first 
impulse. Brunner, who saw a bribe in the offer, began. 


118 


Cousin Pons, 


like a true Israelite, to feel suspicious, and assumed a 
cold, reflective, calculating manner. 

“ My collection, or its value, will one day belong to 
your family, whether I sell it now to my friend Brunner 
or whether I keep it,” said Pons, revealing to the 
astounded family that he possessed articles of great 
value. 

Brunner observed the revulsion of feeling shown by 
these ignorant people towards a man who thus passed 
from a state of indigence to one of wealth, just as he 
had already observed the indulgent petting which the 
father and mother bestowed upon Cecile, the idol of 
their house ; and he took a sudden fancy to excite the 
amazement and the exclamations of these respectable 
bourgeois to a still higher pitch. “ I told Mademoiselle 
that the pictures of Monsieur Pons were worth a certain 
sum to me ; but at the price now given for such unique 
works of art, no one can foresee how high the value of 
the collection might prove to be, if it were offered at 
public sale. The sixty pictures alone would bring a 
million. I saw several among them worth fifty thou- 
sand francs.” 

“ It is a good thing to be your heir,” said the former 
notary to Pons. 

“ My heir will be my cousin C4cile,” said the worthy 
man, clinging to the relationship. 

A murmur of admiration for the old musician ran 
through the room. 

“ She will be a rich heiress,” said Cardot, laughing, 
as he took leave. 

Old Camusot, the president and his wife, Cecile, 
Brunner, Pons, and Berthier were thus left together ; 


Cousin Pons. 


11 & 


for it was supposed by all parties that the formal 
demand for the hand of Cecile would now be made; 
and no sooner were they left alone than Brunner put 
what the parents took to be a leading question. 

“ I am led to believe,” said Brunner, addressing 
Madame de Marville, “that Mademoiselle is an only 
daughter ? ” 

“ Most certainly,” she answered, with pride. 

“ You will find no difficulties whatever,” said Pons, 
intending to bring Brunner at once to the point. 

Brunner became thoughtful, and a fatal silence spread 
a cold chill through the room ; if Madame de Marville 
had proclaimed her daughter an epileptic, the effect 
could not have been more extraordinary. The presi- 
dent, feeling that his daughter ought not to be present, 
made her a sign, which Cecile understood ; she lefL the 
room. Brunner remained silent. The others looked 
at each other. The situation became embarrassing. 
Old Camusot, who was a man of experience, led the 
German into Madame de Marville’s bedroom, under 
pretence of showing him the fan which Pons had dis- 
covered. Judging that some difficulty had arisen in 
Brunner’s mind, he made a sign to his son and his 
daughter-in-law and Pons to leave them alone together. 

“ Here is the little masterpiece,” said the old silk- 
mercer, displaying the fan. 

“It is worth at least five thousand francs,” said 
Brunner, after examining it. 

“ I think you came, monsieur, to ask the hand of 
my granddaughter? ” said the future peer of France. 

“ Yes, monsieur,” said Brunner ; “ and I beg you to 
believe that no alliance could be more flattering to me. 


120 


Cousin Pons, 


I shall never find a young lady more lovely, more 
amiable, and who would suit me better than Mademoi- 
selle Cecile ; but — ” 

“ Ah, there must be no buts ! ” exclaimed old Camu- 
sot; “ or, at least, let me know at once the reason of 
them, my dear sir.” 

“ Monsieur,” said Brunner, gravely, “ I am very glad 
that no promises have been made on either side ; for 
the fact of her being an only daughter • — a fact so de- 
sirable for all men except myself, and of which I was in 
total ignorance — is to me an insuperable objection.” 

“Is it possible, monsieur,” said the old man, dumb- 
founded, “ that so great an advantage should seem to 
you a defect? Your conduct is most extraordinar}’’, 
and I wish to know your reasons for it.” 

“ Monsieur,” said the German, stolidly, “ I came 
here this evening with the intention of asking the presi- 
dent for his daughter’s hand. I wished to offer Made- 
moiselle Cecile a brilliant future and so much of my 
fortune as she would deign to accept; but an only 
daughter is a spoiled child, whose parents have indulged 
her in having her own wa}^, and who has never known 
opposition. I see here what I have seen in other fami- 
lies where they idolize this kind of divinit}’. Your 
granddaughter is not onl}" the idol of the house ; her 
mother, Madame de Marville, wears the — you know 
what I mean ! Monsieur, I saw my father’s home 
turned into a hell for just this reason. My step- 
mother, the cause of all m3" troubles, was an only 
daughter, idolized by her parents, the most charming 
of brides ; and yet she became a devil incarnate. I 
have no doubt that Mademoiselle Cecile is an exception 


Cousin Pons. 


121 


to the rule ; but I am no longer a young man ; I am 
forty 3'ears old, — and this difference between our ages 
will occasion a separation of interests which will pre- 
vent me from making the happiness of any ^’oung lady 
who is accustomed to see her mother do as she likes, 
and to whom that mother listens as if to an oracle. 
What right have I to ask Mademoiselle Cecile to change 
all her habits and ideas for me ? Instead of a father 
and mother indulgent to her smallest caprices, she would 
encounter the selfishness of a middle-aged man. If she 
resisted, the vanquished party would be the middle-aged 
man. I therefore behave like a man of honor ; I with- 
draw. But I wish to take all the blame of this rupture 
upon m^'self ; and if it is necessary to explain wh}" I have 
only paid one visit here — ” 

“ If these are your reasons, monsieur,’’ said Mon- 
sieur Camusot, “ however singular they may be, they 
are certainly plausible.” 

“ Monsieur, do not doubt my sincerity,” said Brun- 
ner, interrupting him eagerly. “If you will find me 
some poor girl, one of a large family of children, with- 
out fortune, — of which there are so many in France, 
— I will marry her, if her character is such as to 
justify my doing so.” 

During the silence which followed this speech Frederic 
Brunner left the grandfather, went back into the salon, 
where he bowed politely to the father and mother, and 
withdrew. Cecile reappeared, a living commentary 
upon the escape of her Werther, and as pale as death ; 
she had heard everj^ word from her mother’s wardrobe, 
where she had hid herself. 

“ Refused ! ” she whispered to her mother. 


122 


Cousin Pons. 


“And why?” demanded Madame de Marville, ad- 
dressing the perplexed grandfather. 

“ On the fine pretence that an only child is sure to be 
a spoilt one,” he answered. “ And he is not altogether 
wrong,” added the old man, seizing the occasion to 
cast blame upon his daughter-in-law, who had been 
a thorn in his side for the last twenty years. 

‘ ‘ My daughter will die of it ! — You have killed 
her ! ” said Madame de Marville to Pons, supporting 
Cecile, who thought it becoming to justify the words by 
sinking into her mother’s arms. 

The president and his wife carried Cecile to a sofa, 
where she finally fainted away. The grandfather rang 
for the servant*. 


Cousin Pom. 


123 


XI. 


PONS BURIED UNDER GRAVEL. 

“I SEE the plot he has hatched,” said the angry 
mother, pointing to Pons. 

Pons started up as if the last trump were sounding in 
his ears. 

“ He was determined,” continued Madame de Mar- 
ville, whose eyes were like two fountains of green bile, 
“ to repay a harmless joke by an insult. Who will ever 
believe that this German is in his right senses ? Either 
he is the accomplice of an atrocious revenge, or he is 
crazy. I hope. Monsieur Pons, that in. future you will 
spare us the annoyance of seeing you in this house, to 
which you have tried to bring shame and dishonor.” 

Pons, turned to stone, stood with his eyes on a pat- 
tern of the carpet, twirling his thumbs. 

“What! are you still there? — monster of ingrati- 
tude ! ” cried the furious woman, turning round. “We 
are never at home, neither your master nor I,” she 
added, addressing the servants, “ when Monsieur Pons 
calls again. Go and fetch the doctor, Jean. And you, 
Madeleine, get some hartshorn.” 

To Madame de Marville’s mind the reason alleged by 
Brunner was a mere pretext to hide some hidden mo- 
tive ; but the breaking off of the maniage was only the 
more certain. With the rapidity of thought which is 


Cousin Pons. 


characteristic of women under extreme circumstance^, 
she saw that the only way to repair the damage of sucn 
a defeat was to call it a premeditated vengeance on the 
part of Pons. This infernal scheme, if attributed to 
him, would redeem the honor of the family. True to 
her hatred of the old man, she turned a mere female sus- 
picion into a fact. Women, as a general thing, have a 
par^2‘5lar creed and morality of their own ; they believe 
in the truth oi all that serves their interests and their 
passions. Madame de Marville went further still : she 
spent the evening in persuading the president to believe 
as she did ; and by the next morning he was fully con- 
vinced of his cousin’s guilt. Every one will think Ma- 
dame de Marville’s conduct horrible ; yet many a mother 
would do the same under the like circumstances, — they 
would all rather sacrifice the honor of a stranger than 
that of a daughter. Methods may change, the inten- 
tion will be the same. 

The old musician left the house hastily ; but his step 
was slow along the boulevards, and he entered the theatre 
mechanically. Between the acts he answered Schmucke 
in such a vague manner that the latter hid his fears, 
thinking that Pons was out of his mind. To a nature 
so childlike as that of Pons, the scene which had just oc- 
curred took the proportions of a catastrophe. To have 
roused such horrible hatred where he had meant to be- 
stow happiness, was the total overthrow of his existence. 
He felt in the ej^es, the gestures, the voice of Madame 
de Marville an implacable enmity. 

The next day Madame Camusot de Marville reached 
a great determination, exacted by circumstances, and 
assented to by the president. They resolved to give 


Cousin Pons, 


125 


Cecile the Marville estate as a dot^ with the hotel in the 
rue de Hanovre, and a hundred thousand francs. In 
the course of the morning, Madame de Marville went to 
call on the Comtesse Popinot, perceiving plainly that 
the only way to cover up such a defeat was by an imme- 
diate marriage. She related the shocking vengeance 
and the frightful deception perpetrated b}’ Pons. The 
story seemed plausible to the Popinots as soon as they 
heard that the reason given for the rupture was the 
singular objection to an only daughter. Madame de 
Marville dwelt on the brilliant advantage of being called 
Popinot de Marville, and the immense amount of the 
dot. Even at the price of land in Normandy, where it 
brings in only two per cent, the estate was worth about 
nine hundred thousand francs, and the hotel in the rue 
de Hanovre was valued at two hundred and fifty thou- 
sand more. No reasonable family could decline such 
an alliance ; the Comte and Comtesse Popinot accord- 
ingly accepted it. Then, as the}^ were now concerned 
in the honor of the family into which they wei*e about 
to marry, they promised their concurrence in explaining 
the catastrophe of the previous evening. 

Soon after, at the house of the same old Camusot, 
grandfather of Cecile, and in presence of the same per- 
sons before whom, a few days earlier, Madame de Mar- 
ville had chanted the Brunner-1 itany, the same woman, 
whom no one dared to contradict, bravely took the lead 
in explanations. 

“ Really, in these days,” she said, “ 3"OU can’t take 
too many precautions in arranging a marriage, — above 
all, when you have to do with foreigners.” 

“ Why so, madame? ” 


126 


Cousin Pons, 


“What has happened?’’ inquired Madame Chiffre- 
ville. 

“ Did you not hear of our adventure with that Brun- 
ner, who had the audacity to aspire to Cecile? He 
turns out to be the son of a German eating-house 
keeper! the nephew of a man who sells rabbit- 
skins ! ” 

“ Is it possible? And you so cautious ! ” said a lady. 

“These adventurers are so clever I But Berthier 
discovered the plot. This German has a friend, — a 
poor devil who plays the flute ; he is connected with 
a man who keeps a common lodging-house in the rue 
de Mail, and with some tailors — actually tailors I We 
are told he has led a most debauched life, and that no 
fortune is safe in his hands. He has already squan- 
dered that of his mother.” 

“ Mademoiselle would have been very unhappy,” re- 
marked Madame Berthier. 

“ How did you happen to meet him? ” inquired old 
Madame Lebas. 

“ It was a piece of revenge on the part of Monsieur 
Pons. He introduced this flne friend of his simply to 
overwhelm us with ridicule. This Brunner (the name 
means ‘ fountain ; ’ but he claimed to be a great lord) 
is in poor health, bald, and has bad teeth ! To see him 
once was enough for me.” 

“ But the great fortune which you mentioned?” said 
a 3'Oung woman, timidly. 

“ The fortune is not as large as they said it was. 
The tailor, the lodging-house man, and Brunner him- 
self have scraped together all they possess to start a 
banking-house. What is a banking-house when it first 


Cousin Pons, 


127 


starts ? A mere opportunity for ruin ! A woman who 
goes to bed a millionnaire may wake up reduced to live 
on her own dot ! At the first look, the first word of the 
man, — who knows nothing of the customs of good 
society, — we made up our minds about him. You can 
see by his gloves, his very waistcoat, that he is nothing 
better than a workman, — the son of a German who 
keeps a low cook-shop, without honorable feelings, a 
beer-drinker, and who smokes — ah, madame, fancy ! 
— twenty-five pipes a day ! What a fate for my poor 
Lili ! I still shudder at it ! But God saved us. More- 
over, Cecile did not like the man. How could we have 
suspected such a scheme on the part of a relation, a 
constant visitor at the house ? — a man who has dined 
with us at least twice a week for twenty years, whom 
we have loaded with benefits, and who kept up the farce 
so audaciously that he actually announced before the 
keeper of the seals, the chief-justice, and the procureur^ 
general that he meant to make Cecile his heir ! This 
Brunner and Monsieur Pons were in league to make 
each other out worth millions. Ah, I assure you, 
ladies, that you would all of you have been taken in 
by this deception, — planned, as it was, by artists.” 

In a short time the united families of Popinot and 
Camusot and their adherents had won an easy victory 
before the world, — where no one took up the cudgels 
for poor Pons, the parasite, the dissembler, the miser ; 
the false-hearted being, sunk beneath contempt, re- 
garded as a viper, warmed in the bosom of families 
only to sting them ; a man of extraordinary malicious- 
ness, a dangerous buffoon to be forgotten as soon as 
possible. 


128 


Cousin Pons, 


A month after the rejection of the false Werther, 
poor Pons, leaving his bed, where he had been Ijdng a 
prey to nervous fever, walked slowh’ along the boule- 
vards in the sun, leaning upon the arm of his faithful 
Schmucke. People sitting on the boulevard du Temple 
no longer laughed at the two Nut-crackers, when they 
saw the decrepit gait of one and the touching solicitude 
shown by the other for his convalescent friend. By the 
time they reached the boulevard Poissonniere Pons had 
recovered a little color, as he breathed the atmosphere 
of the boulevards with its stimulating properties ; for 
wherever a crowd congregates the air is so life-giving 
that even in the filthy Ghetto at Rome, swarming with 
Jews, malaria is never known. Perhaps, too, the sight 
of all that once gave him dail}’' pleasure — the grand 
drama of Paris — may have had its effect upon the in- 
valid’s mind. In front of the Theatre des Varietes 
Pons left Schmucke, with whom he had been walk- 
ing arm in arm, except at moments when the con- 
valescent quitted his friend to examine some novelty 
newly exhibited in a shop-window. He came suddenly 
face to face with Comte Popinot, and advanced to 
meet him with much respect ; for the former minister 
was one of the men whom Pons chiefiy esteemed and 
venerated. 

“ Monsieur,” said the peer of France, severely, “I 
wonder you have so little tact as to bow to a person 
who is allied to the family you have attempted to cover 
with shame and mortification by a revenge which none 
but an artist could have concocted. Remember, mon- 
sieur, that from this day forth you and I are completely 
strangers to one another. Madame la comtesse Popinot 


Cousin Pons, 


129 


shares the indignation with which the world regards 
your conduct to the Marvilles.” 

The count passed on, leaving Pons struck down as if 
by lightning. Never do the passions of men, nor jus- 
tice, nor political necessity, nor the great social forces 
of the world, consider the inward state of the being 
whom they strike. The statesman, driven by family 
interests to crush the poor old man, had not observed 
the physical weakness of that redoubtable enemy. 

“Vat ees der madder, mein boor frent?” cried 
Schmucke, growing as pale as Pons himself. 

“ Another stab in the heart,” said the old man, sup- 
porting himself on Schmucke’s arm. “ Perhaps none 
but the good God has the right to do good ; and that 's 
why those who meddle with his work are so cruelly 
punished.” 

This artist’s sarcasm was a mighty effort on the part 
of the excellent creature, who wanted to chase awa}" the 
terror he saw on his friend’s face. 

“ I dink zo,” answered Schmucke, simply. 

The whole thing was incomprehensible to Pons, to 
whom neither the Camusots nor the Popinots had sent 
a billet defaire part of Cecile’s marriage. On the bou- 
levard des Italiens, Pons saw Monsieur Cardot coming 
towards him. Warned by the allocution of Comte Po- 
pinot, he took care not to stop a man with whom he 
formerly dined every fortnight, and merely bowed to 
him ; but Cardot, a mayor and deputy, looked at him 
indignantly and did not return the salutation. 

“ Go and ask him what it is they have against me,” 
said the old man to Schmucke, who knew the details of 
the catastrophe that had happened to Pons. 

9 


130 


Cousin Pons, 


Monsir,” said Schmucke to Cardot, diplomatically, 
my frent Bons ees regovering from an eelness, and 
zo, perhaps, you gan not regognize heem/’ 

“ I recognize him perfectly.” 

“ Denn, vat haf you all accainst heems? ” 

“ Your friend is a monster of ingratitude ; if he re- 
covers, it is because, as the proverb says, ‘ ill weeds live 
in spite of everything.’ The world has good reason to 
distrust artists ; they are as malicious and spiteful as 
monkeys. Your friend endeavored to degrade his own 
family and to destroy the reputation of a young girl, 
merely to revenge a harmless jest. I will not hold the 
slightest communication with him ; I shall try to forget 
that I ever knew him, — that he even exists. These 
sentiments, monsieur, are those of my family, of his, 
and of all persons who formerly did monsieur the honor 
to receive him in their houses.” 

“ Pud, monsir, you are ein reazonaple mann ; zo vill 
you bermid me to egsblain der madder for you? ” 
“Remain his friend yourself, monsieur, if you can 
still find it in your heart to do so,” answered Cardot ; 
“ but go no further, for I warn you that I shall include 
in the same condemnation all persons who attempt to 
justify his conduct.” 

“ I gan joustivy heems ! ” 

“ His conduct is unjustifiable, indefensible.” 

The deputy of the Seine passed on without allowing 
himself to hear another word. 

“ The two legislative powers are against me,” said 
poor Pons, smiling, when Schmucke related these sav- 
age denunciations. 

“ Eferyding ees accainst us,” answered Schmucke, 


Cousin Pons. 


131 


mournfully. “ Led us go home ; zo vill ve meet no 
more vools.” 

It was the first time in his docile, lamb-like existence 
that Schmucke used such language. Never had his 
half-divine meekness been so ruffled. He would have 
smiled at any ill usage of himself, but to stand by and 
see it showered on his glorious Pons, — that unrecog- 
nized Aristides, that modest genius, that soul without 
bitterness, that treasure of loving-kindness, that heart 
of pure gold ! He felt the wrath of an Alceste, and he 
called the detractors of Pons “fools.” In his placid 
nature such emotion was equivalent to the mad furies of 
Roland. With wise precaution, Schmucke drew Pons 
toward the boulevard du Temple, and Pons allowed 
himself to be led, for the sick soul was in the condition 
of a wrestler who can no longer count the blows. Fate, 
however, willed that nothing within the range of his 
little world should be lacking to the calamity of the poor 
musician. The avalanche that rolled over him was to 
contain every element of destruction, — the chamber of 
peers, the chamber of deputies, relations, strangers, the 
strong, the weak, and the innocent ! 

As they returned along the boulevard Poisonniere, 
Pons saw the daughter of this same Monsieur Cardot, 
a young woman who had gone through enough trouble 
of her own to make her merciful. Guilty of misconduct 
supposed to be kept secret, she had since made herself 
the slave of her husband. She was the only lady in the 
houses where Pons dined whom he ventured to address 
by her Christian name: he called her “ Felicie,” and 
sometimes fancied that she really understood his nature. 
The gentle creature seemed annoyed at meeting her 


132 


Cousin Pons, 


Cousin Pons (the title was always given to him, although 
he held no real relationship to the family of the second 
wife of his cousin, old Camusot) ; but as it was now 
impossible to avoid him, Felicie Berthier stopped short 
before the miserable man. 

“ I did not think you wicked, cousin,” she said, ‘‘ but 
if a quarter of what I hear is true, you are a base man. 
Oh ! don’t defend yourself,” she added, hastily, seeing 
that Pons made a gesture to that effect ; “ it is useless 
for two reasons : first, I have no right to accuse or to 
judge or to condemn any one, knowing by myself that 
those who seem most to blame have many excuses to 
offer ; secondly, because your defence can do no good. 
Monsieur Berthier, who has drawn the marriage con-, 
tract between Mademoiselle de Marville and the 
Vicomte Popinot, is so irritated against you that he 
would be very angry if he knew I had said a single 
word to you, though for the last time. Every one 
is against you.” 

“ I see it only too well, madame,” answered the poor 
old man in a broken voice, bowing respectfully to the 
notary’s wife. 

He resumed his painful walk, leaning so heavily on 
Schmucke’s arm as to betray to the old German his phy- 
sical faintness, though it was bravel}^ controlled. This 
third encounter was like the judgment of the lamb lying 
at the feet of God. The wrath of that angel of the poor, 
that symbol of the peoples, shuts the portals of heaven. 
The two friends reached home without exchanging a 
word. In certain circumstances of life we can bear no 
more than to feel a friend at our side. Spoken conso- 
lation irritates the wound and reveals its depth. The 


Cousin Pons, 


133 


old pianist had, as we see, the genius of friendship, the 
delicacy of those who, having suffered, know the needs 
of suffering. 

This walk was to be the last ever taken by the worthy 
Pons. He went from one illness to another. Naturally 
of a bilious-sanguine temperament, the bile now passed 
into his blood, and he was seized with violent inflamma- 
tion of the liver. These successive attacks being the 
only illnesses of his life, he knew no doctor ; and Ma- 
dame Cibot, with an intention that was excellent in the 
first instance and even maternal, called in the doctor of 
the neighborhood. In every “ quarter” of Paris there 
is a doctor whose name and residence are unknown to 
any but the lower classes. This physician, who takes 
care of the women in childbirth and bleeds the neighbor- 
hood, is to his profession what the servant-of-all-work 
is in domestic service. Compelled to be good to the 
poor, and sufficiently expert by reason of long practice, 
he is universally beloved. Doctor Poulain, brought to 
the sick man by Madame Cibot and recognized by 
Schmucke, listened, without much heed, to the com- 
plaints of the old musician, who had passed the night 
in scratching his skin, which had become insensible to 
the touch. The state of the eyes, suffused with yellow, 
was in keeping with this symptom. 

“You have had some violent grief within a day or 
two ? ” said the doctor to his patient. 

“ Alas ! yes,” answered Pons. 

“You have the disease which monsieur, here, only 
just escaped,” said the doctor, pointing to Schmucke, 
“ the jaundice. But it won’t amount to anything,” he 
added, writing a prescription. 


134 


Cousin Pons, 


In spite of these consoling words, the doctor gave the 
sick man one of those keen scientific glances in which 
the sentence of death, concealed by customary compas- 
sion, is guessed by those who are interested in knowing 
the truth. Madame Cibot darted an inquiring look into 
the physician’s eyes, and was not misled by the tone of 
the professional words, nor by the deceptive expression 
of Doctor Poulain’s face, and she followed him when he 
left the room. 

“ Do you really think it will be nothing?” she said 
to him on the landing. 

“ My dear Madame Cibot, your gentleman is a dead 
man ; not because the bile has got into his blood, but 
because of a moral break-down. Still, with a great deal 
of care the patient may pull through. He must be taken 
away from here ; he ought to travel — ” 

“And who’ll pay for it?” said the woman. “He 
has n’t got no means but his salary ; and his friend lives 
on a bit of an annuity some great ladies give him, — 
charitable ladies, to whom I dare say he did some ser- 
vice. The}^ ain’t nothing but babes, them two ; I ’ve 
taken care of ’em for nine years.” 

“I have spent my life in seeing people die, not of 
their illnesses, but of that great and incurable disease, 
the want of money. There ’s many a garret where, so 
far from getting paid for m}^ visit, I am obliged to leave 
a five-franc piece on the table.” 

‘ ‘ Poor dear Monsieur Poulain ! ” said Madame Cibot. 
“ Ah! if you’d only got the income of some o’ them 
skinflints in this very quarter, who ain’t nothing better 
nor devils let loose, you’d be the very image of the 
good God on earth.” 


Coudn Pom. 


135 


The doctor, who owed to the good-will and confidence 
of the concierges of his arrondissement the little prac- 
tice which scarce!}^ sufficed to feed him, raised his eyes 
to heaven and thanked Madame Cibot with a grimace 
worthy of Tartufe. 

“ Then you think, dear Monsieur Poulain, that with 
a gi*eat deal o’ care our dear patient may get over it?” 

“ Yes, if his moral system is not too much pulled 
down by his trouble.” 

‘‘Poor man! what can have troubled him? There 
ain’t no better man. He hain’t got his equal on earth, 
except his friend. Monsieur Schmucke. I’ll find out 
what ’s upset him ; and I ’ll make ’em wince, whoever 
they be, that have worried my gentleman.” 

“ Listen to me, my dear Madame Cibot,” said the 
doctor, after he reached the porte-cochere. “ One of 
the chief symptons of the disease your gentleman has 
got is constant anxiety about mere nothings ; and as 
it is not likely that he can afford a nurse, you will have 
to take care of him ; therefore — ” 

“Is it of Monsieur Pons that you are speaking?” 
asked the dealer in old iron-work, who was smoking 
his pipe ; and as he spoke he looked round his door- 
post to join in the conversation. 

“Yes, Papa Remonencq,” replied Madame Cibot. 

“ Well, then ! he is richer than Monsieur Monistrol 
himself,” said the Auvergnat, “ and all the other curi- 
osity men. I know enough about the trade to tell you 
the dear man has got treasures.” 

“ Goodness ! I thought you were making fun of me 
the other day when I showed you them antiquities while 
my gentlemen were out,” said Madame Cibot. 


136 


Cousin Pons, 


In Paris, where the pavements have ears and the 
doors a tongue and window-shutters eyes, there is 
nothing more dangerous than to talk in a porte-cochere. 
The last words exchanged there, like the postscript to 
a letter, often contain revelations as dangerous for those 
who let them be heard as for those who hear them. A 
single example will suffice to corroborate the case which 
presently appears in our history. 


Cousin Pons, 


161 


XII. 

<*L’0B EST UN CHIM^IRE.” — WORDS BY SCRIBE, MUSIC 
BY MEYERBEER, SCENERY BY REMONENCQ. 

One of the chief hair-dressers in the days of the Em- 
pire — a period at which men bestowed much care upon 
their heads — came early one morning out of a house 
where he had been dressing the hair of a pretty woman. 
In that house he had the custom of all the rich ten- 
ants ; among them flourished an old bachelor, protected 
by a housekeeper who detested “her gentleman’s” 
heirs. The ci-devant young man fell seriously ill, and 
a consultation of all the famous doctors (not as yet 
dubbed “princes of science”) was called in. These 
doctors, leaving the house accidentally at the same 
time as the hair-dresser, and stopping to bid each other 
good-by at the front door, were talking truth and sci- 
ence with the freedom they display among themselves 
when the consultation farce is over. 

“ He is a dead man,” said Doctor Haudry. 

“ He has n’t a month to live,” replied Desplein, “ un- 
less, indeed, by a miracle.” 

The hair-dresser heard the words. Like all hair-dress- 
ers he had an understanding with the servants. Impelled 
by iniquitous cupidity, he ran back to the old bachelor’s 
appartement, and offered the housekeeper a large pre- 


138 


Cousin Pons. 


mium if she would persuade the sick man to invest the 
greater part of his fortune in an annuity. The chief 
item of the fortune of the dying man, who was fifty-six 
years old, and seemed nearly twice that age by reason 
of his dissipations, was a magnificent house in the rue 
Richelieu, worth at this time about two hundred and 
fifty thousand francs. This house, greatly coveted by 
the hair-dresser, was, through the persuasions of the 
housekeeper, made over to him for an annuity of thirty 
thousand francs. All this took place in 1806. The 
hair-dresser, long since retired from business, is now a 
man of seventy, and is still paying, in 1846, the annuity 
granted forty 3 "ears ago. As the ci-devant 3 "oung man 
is now ninety-six, quite childish, and married to his 
housekeeper, he may last some time longer. The hair- 
dresser, having paid the woman thirty thousand francs 
bonus, finds that this piece of landed property has cost 
him over a million. However, the house to-day is worth 
from eight to nine hundred thousand francs. 

In imitation of the hair-dresser, Remonencq had over- 
heard the last words said b}^ Brunner to Pons on the 
steps of his door, the day that phoenix-lover was pre- 
sented to Cecile. He therefore longed to penetrate into 
the old man’s museum. Remonencq, who lived on good 
terms with Madame Cibot, was soon admitted into the 
appartement of the two friends while they were out of 
the way. Dazzled by such treasures, he saw a coup a 
monter^ — which means in dealer’s slang, a fortune to 
steal, — and he turned the project over and over in his 
mind for five or six daj^s. 

“ I was n’t joking,” he said to Madame Cibot and 
the doctor. “ Let us talk the matter over, and if the 


Cousin Pons. 


139 


good gentleman would like an annuity of fifty thousand 
francs, I ’ll go a hamper of wine if you — ” 

“What are you dreaming of?” said the doctor to 
Eemonencq. “ Fifty thousand francs annuity ! Why, 
if the good man is as rich as that, and is doctored by 
me and cared for by Madame Cibot, he may get well ; 
liver-complaints are the sign of a good constitution.” 

“ Did I say fifty? Why, a gentleman, on those very 
steps that you are standing on, proposed to pay him a 
hundred and fifty thousand francs for the pictures alone, 
damn it ! ” 

Hearing this assertion, Madame Cibot looked at the 
doctor with a strange expression ; the devil lit up sinis- 
ter fires in her orange-colored eyes. 

“ Come, come ! don’t listen to such idle tales,” said 
the doctor, pleased to know that the patient could pay 
for his visits. 

“Monsieur le docteur,” said Eemonencq, “if my 
dear Madame Cibot would let me bring an expert to 
examine the articles now that the poor gentleman is 
in his bed, T ’ll pay the money down in two hours, — 
even if it comes to a hundred and fifty thousand 
francs.” 

“Well, well, my good friend!” said the doctor. 
“Madame Cibot, be sure not to contradict or annoy 
the poor man. You must be very patient ; for every- 
thing will irritate and fatigue him, even your attentions. 
You must make up your mind that nothing will please 
him.” 

“ That ’ll be mighty hard on me ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ Come, listen to me,” resumed the doctor, sternly. 
“ The life of Monsieur Pons is in the hands of those 


140 


Cousin Pons. 


who take care of him ; therefore I shall come and see 
him twice a day probably; I shall begin my rounds 
here.” 

The doctor had suddenly passed from the profound 
indifference he felt for the fate of his sick poor to a 
tender solicitude, as he recognized the possibility of the 
wealth so insisted upon by the speculator. 

“He shall be nursed like a king!” cried Madame 
Cibot, with sham enthusiasm. 

She waited till the doctor had turned the comer of 
the rue Chariot before continuing the conversation with 
Remonencq. The man finished his pipe, with his back 
against the casing of his shop-door. He did not take 
the position accidentally^ ; he wished to compel Madame 
Cibot to come to him. 

The shop, once used as a cafe, remained just as it 
was when the Auvergnat first hired it. The words 
“ Caf^ de Normandie” were still to be read on the 
long sign which is placed above the window-panes in 
all modern shops. The Auvergnat had had the words 
“Remonencq, dealer in old iron-work; buys second- 
hand merchandise,” painted (probably for nothing) with 
a brush and some black paint, in the space which was 
left under the name “ Cafe de Normandie.” Of course, 
the mirrors, tables, chairs, sideboards, and all the furni- 
ture of the cafe had been removed. Remonencq had 
hired, for six hundred francs, the dismantled shop, the 
back-shop, the kitchen and one bedroom above the 
ground-floor, where in former days only the waiter had 
slept, for the bedrooms belonging to the Cafe de 
Normandie were situated elsewhere. Of the primitive 
luxury’ once displayed by that establishment nothing 


Cousin Pons, 


141 


remained but a plain light-green paper on the walls of 
the shop, and the strong iron bars and bolts of the 
shop-window. 

Remonencq had come there after the Revolution of 
July in 1831, and had begun by displaying cracked 
bells, old pans, iron- work of all kinds, old scales, and 
weights now legally discarded by the law relating to the 
new weights and measures, — which by the bye the 
Government alone does not obey, for it still leaves 
among its copper coins the old one and two sous-pieces 
of the reign of Louis XVI. The Auvergnat, who was 
cleverer than any five of his compatriots put together, 
purchased sets of second-hand kitchen utensils, old 
frames, old brasses, chipped porcelains. Gradually, 
by dint of emptying and replenishing his stores, the 
shop had grown to look like the scene of a farce by 
Nicolet. The character of the merchandise improved ; 
the dealer played the daring but sure game of doubling 
his venture at each remove ; a game whose effect is plain 
to the eyes of all loungers sufficiently philosophical to 
study the progressive growth in value of the articles 
exhibited by these intelligent dealers. To ironmongery^ 
earthenware, and tinware, succeed brasses, frames, and 
wood-carvings. After these come porcelains. Soon the 
shop, passing through an era of wretched pictures and 
rubbish, becomes a museum. At last the day dawns 
when the window-panes are cleaned, the interior is 
fitted up ; the Auvergnat abandons his velveteen waist- 
coats and takes to wearing coats ; he is seen to be a 
dragon mounting guard over real treasures ; he is sur- 
rounded by masterpieces of all kinds ; he has grown to 
be a keen connoisseur ; he has increased his capital ten- 


142 


Cousin Pons, 


fold, and can no longer be taken in by others of his ilk, 
for he knows all the tricks of his trade. The monster 
is there, like an old woman surrounded by young girls 
whom she offers for sale. Beauty and miracles of art 
are nothing to this man, who is both coarse and culti- 
vated, who calculates his profits, and sneers at all igno- 
rance of art. Before long he takes to comedy ; affects 
to love his pictures and his marquetry ; feigns poverty, 
or invents a tale of cost-prices and offers to show the 
bills of sale. He becomes a Proteus ; within the space 
of an hour he is Jocrisse, Janot, Merry-Andrew, 
Mondor, Harpagon, or Nicodemus, as it suits him. 

After the second year, rare clocks, armor, and old 
pictures began to appear in Remonencq's shop, which was 
kept during his many absences by his sister — a large 
and very ugly woman — who had come from Auvergne 
on foot at his request. This female Remonencq — a 
species of idiot with a vague eye, dressed like a Japanese 
idol — never abated one penny of the price her brother 
instructed her to ask. She also took charge of the 
housekeeping, and solved the apparently insoluble prob- 
lem of sustaining life on starvation commons. The pair 
lived on bread and herrings, trimmings from the mar- 
kets, scraps of vegetables picked out of the waste stuff 
left by the hucksters in the corners of their premises. 
They allowed themselves twelve sous a day for their 
food, bread included, and the woman sewed or spun to 
earn them. 

This development of business in the case of Remo- 
nencq, who originally came to Paris as a messenger, and 
did errands from 1825 to 1831 for the curiosity-shops 
on the boulevard Beaumarchais and the coppersmiths of 


Cousin Pons, 


143 


the rue de Lappe, is the normal history of most of the 
bric-k-brac dealers of Paris. The four races chiefly 
employ- ed in this trade — Jews, Normans, Auvergnats, 
and Savoyards — have each the same instincts, and 
make their fortune by the same means. Their code 
binds them to spend nothing, make small profits, and 
accumulate their profits and the interest of their profits ; 
the code has now become a charter. 

At this particular time Remonencq, in conjunction 
with his old employer Monistrol, scoured the Banlieue 
of Paris — which, as we know, covers a radius of one 
hundred and twenty miles — in all directions for curi- 
osities in their own line. After fourteen years of such 
traffic he had amassed sixty thousand francs and a shop 
full of treasures. He gained little in the shop itself, 
and only stayed in the rue de Normandie because the 
rent was low ; but he sold his gatherings to the larger 
dealers, and was satisfied with a moderate profit. He 
transacted all his business in the Auvergne patois, called 
charabia. The man nourished a dream ; he longed for 
a shop on the boulevards ; he wished to be among the 
rich dealers in antiquities, and to come directly in con- 
tact with amateurs. He was cut out for a trader, and 
a formidable one. His face had a coating of the dust 
of iron-filings (for he did his work himself) , which was 
glued to the skin by perspiration, and added to the in- 
scrutability of his countenance, already endowed through 
the habit of physical endurance with the stoic impassa- 
bility of the old soldiers of 1799. In person, Remonencq 
was short and thin ; and his little eyes, set in his head like 
those of a pig, revealed in each cold blue iris the con- 
centrated greed and the crafty cunning of the Jews. 


144 


Cousin Pons, 


without their apparent humility, — which merely covers 
the profound contempt they feel for Christians. 

The relations between Remonencq and the Cibots 
were those of benefactor and beneficiaries. Madame 
Cibot, persuaded that the Auvergnats were very poor, 
let them buy the cold pieces of Cibot’s and Schmucke’s 
dinner for a mere nothing. The Remonencqs paid two 
centimes and a half for a pound of dry crusts with a 
little crumb to them ; the same for a pan of potatoes, 
and so forth. The crafty R4monencq was supposed to 
do no business on his own account. He claimed to 
represent Monistrol, and declared he was a prey to the 
rich dealers ; consequently the Cibots sincerely pitied 
the Remonencqs. For eleven years the male Auvergnat 
had worn, and never worn out, the velveteen jacket, the 
velveteen trousers, and the velveteen waistcoat of his 
kind ; but these garments, sacred to Auvergnats, were 
riddled with patches put in gratis by Cibot. All Jews, 
as we see, are not Israelites. 

“WerenT you making fun of me, R^monencq?** 
said Madame Cibot. “Could Monsieur Pons have 
such wealth and live the life he does ? He has n’t 
never a hundred francs in the house.” 

“ People with hobbies are alwaj^s like that,” answered 
R(5monencq, sententiously. 

“ You don’t believe, not really, that my monsieur has 
got seven hundred thousand francs ? ” 

“ Yes, he has, in the pictures alone. He’s got one 
I ’d pay him fifty thousand francs for, if it starved me to 
do it. You know those little brass frames, with the 
portraits on red velvet inside of them? Well, they are 
enamels by Petitot, and I know a monsieur in the 


Couiin Pons. 


145 


government — he was once a druggist — who pays a 
thousand francs apiece for such miniatures.” 

“ There ’s thirty of ’em in the two frames ! ” said his 
listener, her eyes dilating. 

“Well, then, you can judge for yourself what treas- 
ures he ’s got.” 

Madame Cibot’s head swam, and she turned sud' 
denly on her heel. At that moment she conceived the 
idea of worming herself into the old man’s will, in imi- 
tation of those servant-mistresses whose annuities ex- 
cited the envy and the cupidity of the whole Marais. 
Her imagination darted into the country about Paris ; 
she saw herself in all her glory as the mistress of a 
country-house, where she should be waited on like a 
queen, and end her days taking care of her poultry-j^ard 
and her garden ; Cibot too, poor man, who deserved 
happiness, like all neglected and misinterpreted angels. 

Remonencq saw a certainty of success in Madame 
Cibot’s abrupt movement. As a chineur (such is the 
slang name for collectors of second-hand treasures, 
from the verb chhier^ to go in quest of old things, and 
drive bargains with their ignorant possessors) , — as a 
chineur the first difficulty is to get into houses. It 
is hard to imagine all the wiles a la Scapin, the tricks 
a la Sganarelle, the seductions k la Dorine, which 
these curiosity-hunters invent to worm themselves into 
the middle-class houses they desire to explore. It is 
a comedy worthy of an3^ theatre, and is always based, 
as in this case, on the rapacity of servants. For thirt}^ 
pieces of silver or a few wares, servants, and above all, 
those in the country or the provincial towns, will help 
the chineur to bargains which often bring him in a 

10 


146 


Comin Pons, 


thousand or two thousand francs. There is a certain ser- 
vice of old Sevres, pate tendre, whose capture, if related, 
would show as much diplomatic craft as the Congress of 
Munster, and all the cleverness displa3"ed at Nimeguen, 
Utrecht, Ryswick, or Vienna, — which indeed is often 
surpassed by the chineurs^ whose comedy is far more 
frank and unabashed than that of the diplomatists. 
These men have waj's of action which dive as deeply 
into the depths of personal interest as those so labori- 
ouslj" sought after b}^ ambassadors to break up the 
best cemented alliances. 

“I’ve finel}’ stirred up that woman Cibot,” said the 
brother to the sister, as he returned to his seat on a 
broken straw-chair ; “ and I ’m going to consult the only 
man who is up to such things, that Jew of ours, — a 
regular Jew, who won’t touch a thing under fifteen per 
cent.” 

Remonencq had read Madame Cibot’s heart. In 
women of her stamp to will is to act ; the^" stick at 
nothing to attain success ; they go direct from the 
strictest integrity" to the deepest villanj*. Honest^’, 
like all other human sentiments, must be divided into 
two honesties, a positive and a negative honest}*. 
The Cibots’ honesty was negative ; such people are 
upright so long as they meet with no opportunity to 
enrich themselves. Positive honesty is always up to 
its knees in temptation and never yields to it ; take 
for instance that of a waiter who receives the payments 
at a cafe. A crowd of evil intentions rushed into 
Madame Cibot’s heart and mind when the fiood-gates 
of self-interest were set open by the devilish sugges- 
tions of her neighbor. She went up — flew up, to 


Cousin Pons. 


14T 


speak accurately — from the lodge to the appartement 
of her two gentlemen, and presented herself, with a 
face of assumed tenderness, at the door of the room 
where Pons and Schmucke were lamenting. As he 
saw her enter, Schmucke made a sign that she should 
say nothing before the patient about the doctor’s real 
opinion ; for this friend, this devoted German, had 
read the truth in the doctor’s eyes ; Madame Cibot 
answered by a shake of her head, expressive of the 
deepest grief. 

‘‘Well, my dear gentleman, how do you feel?” she 
said, standing at the foot of the bed with her arms 
a-kimbo, and her eyes lovingly fixed upon the sick 
man : but what eyes ! what spangles of gold fiashed 
up in them ! as terrible to an observer as the glance 
of a tiger. 

“Very ill,” answered poor Pons; “I have not the 
least appetite. Ah ! what a thing the world is ! ” he 
cried, pressing the hand of Schmucke which held his 
own, as the good friend sat beside his pillow and talked 
with him, no doubt, about the causes of his illness. 
“ How much better for me, my good Schmucke, if I 
had followed your advice ! if I had dined here every day 
since our union ! if I had renounced this world, which 
has rolled over me like a tumbrel over an egg, — and 
why ! ” 

“Come, come, my good monsieur; don’t be so 
gloomy,” said Madame Cibot; “the doctor has told 
me the truth — ” 

Schmucke twitched her dress. 

“ And you ’ll get over it with care, a deal o’ care ; so 
now, be easy. Have n’t you got a good friend, — not to 


148 


Cousin Pons, 


speak o’ me, — a woman as ’ll nurse you like a mother 
nurses her first baby? I pulled Cibot through an ill- 
ness when Monsieur Poulain said he could n’t get well 
nohow and put the weights, as they say, on his e^^es, 
and gave him up for dead. Now you ain’t nigh so bad 
as that, thank God ! not that you ain’t pretty bad ; but 
you trust me. I’ll pull you through ; you be easy, and 
don’t fidget that way,” she added, drawing the bed- 
clothes over the patient’s hands. “Don’t 3^ou never 
worry ; Monsieur Schmucke there, and I, we ’ll sit up 
nights with you. You ’ll be nursed better nor a prince ; 
and besides, ain’t ^rou rich enough to have all 3’ou 
want ? I ’ve talked to Cibot, — poor dear man, what ’ll 
he do without me ! but I ’ve made him listen to reason, 
for don’t you see, we both love you, — and he ’s given 
his consent that I should stay up here nights. Hey ! 
that ’s a might3’ sacrifice for a man like him ; I tell 3’ou 
lie loves me as much as he did the first da3^ ! I don’t 
know what ails him ; it ’s living in that bit of a lodge, 
where he’s alwa3"s tied to my apron-strings. Here, 
don’t uncover 3"ourself like that,” she cried, darting to 
the head of the bed, and pulling the bedclothes over 
Pons’s chest; “if you don’t behave pretty, and do all 
the doctor orders 3"Ou — for that man ’s the image of the 
good God on earth — I won’t take care of 3^ou. You 
must obe3^ me, 3’ou know.” 

“ Yes, Matame Zipod, he vill opey you,” answered 
Schmucke; “ zo vill he, for his goot frent Schmucke, 
dry to lif. I gan bromise dat.” 

“ And you must n’t get impatient,” went on Madame 
Cibot ; “for 3"Our disease will make 3"Ou enough so 
without 3"our natural want o’ patience getting no worse. 


Cousin Pons, 


149 


God sends us trouble, my dear, good monsieur, to 
punish us for our faults. Have n’t you got no little 
faults to reproach yourself with ? ” The sick man shook 
his head. “Oh, don’t tell fibs. Didn’t you love no 
one when you were young? Weren’t you n^er up to 
no mischief ? Come, now, hain’t you somewhere got a 
love-child that has n’t got bread, nor fire, nor home ? 
I know men ! — monsters ! — they love one day, and 
then, click ! they don’t think o’ nothing, not so much as 
paying for a month’s nursing. Poor women ! ” 

“ No one ever loved me but Schmucke and my poor 
mother,” said Pons, sadly. 

“ Nonsense, you ’re not a saint. Were n’t you never 
young? You must have been a good-looking fellow 
once. At twenty, good as you are, I ’d have loved 
you ! ” 

“ I was always as ugly as a toad,” said Pons, 
despondently. 

“ That’s all modesty ; you may say that for yourself, 
you are modest.” 

“No, no, Madame Cibot; I teU you I was always 
ugly ; no one ever loved me.” 

“ I like that ! you, indeed ! ” she persisted. “ Try to 
make me believe 3"ou ’re as innocent as a babe unborn ! 
you a musician, a theatre-man ! Why, if a woman told 
me so, I should n’t believe her.” 

“ Matame Zibod ! you moost not irridade him,” cried 
Schmucke, as he saw Pons writhing like a worm in his 
bed. 

“ Now, you hold your tongue ! You’re both of you 
two old rakes. Suppose you ain’t handsome, what o* 
that ? There ain’t no ugly cover that has n’t its pot, as 


150 


Cousin Pons, 


the proverb says. Cibot made the handsomest oyster- 
woman in all Paris love him, and you are a deal better- 
looking nor he. You ’re none too good. Pooh ! you Ve 
played your little games. And God’s a-punishing you, 
like he did Abraham, for deserting your children.” 

Here the sick man found strength to make another 
gesture of denial. 

‘ ‘ Don’t you mind ! it won’t prevent your living to be 
as old as Mathusalem.” 

“ Let me alone ! ” cried Pons. “ I never knew what 
it was to be loved. I have got no children ; I ’m alone 
upon earth.” 

“You don’t really mean it? ” said the woman eagerly. 
“ You ’re so good ! and women, don’t you know, love 
goodness ; that ’s what wins ’em : and so I thought in 
your best days you must have — ” 

“Take her away!” whispered Pons to Schmucke; 
“ she worries me.” 

“ Hain’t Monsieur Schmucke got no children neither? 
Hey, you are all like that, you old bachelors ! ” 

“ I ! ” exclaimed Schmucke, springing to his feet. 

“ Come, come, you’ll say presently you haven’t got 
no heirs neither ! Did ye spring like mushrooms, now, 
out o’ the ground ? ” 

“ Zilenze ! ” cried Schmucke; and with that the 
good German heroically seized Madame Cibot round 
the waist, and dragged her from the room in spite of 
her cries. 


Cousin Pons. 


151 


XIII. 

TREATS OP THE OCCULT SCIENCES. 

“ At your age to ill use a woman ! ” cried Madame 
Cibot, struggling in Schmucke’s arms. 

“ Toan’d sgream ! ” 

“ You, the best of the two ! Ha ! I did wrong to 
talk o’ love to old fellows ; I put it into your head, 
monster that you are ! ” shrieked Madame Cibot, seeing 
that Schmucke’s eyes sparkled with anger. “Help! 
help ! I ’m seized I ” 

“You are ein vool! ” answered Schmucke. “Dell 
me, vat has de togdor zaid ? ” 

“Why do you insult me?” cried Madame Cibot, 
sobbing, as soon as she was released. “ I, who would 
go through fire and water for you I Ah I they say it 
takes a long time to find out what men are, — how true 
that is ! My poor old Cibot would never use me so, not 
he ! I, who behaved like a mother to you, for I hain’t 
got no children, and as I was saying to Cibot, — yes, no 
later nor yesterday, — ‘ My friend,’ said I, ‘ God knew 
what he was a-doing of when he would n’t let us have 
no children, for I ’ve got two babes upstairs.’ There ! 
by the soul of my mother ! that ’s just what I did say 
to him.” 

“Vat has de togdor zaid?” demanded Schmucke 
furiously, and for the first time in his life he stamped 
his foot 


152 


Cousin Pons. 


“ Well, he said,” answered Madame Cibot, drawing 
Schmucke into the dining-room, “ he said our dearly 
beloved darling was going to die if he did n’t have no 
proper care. But here I am, spite o’ your ill usage ; 
for you did ill use me, — you, whom I took to be so 
quiet. Is that the kind o’ man you are? To go and 
insult a woman at your age, j^ou old scoundrel ! ” 

“ Sgountrel ! I ! — toan’d you know I gan no one 
lof only Bons ? ” 

“Well, that’s all right; you’ll let me alone, won’t 
you?” she answered, smiling at him. “You’d better; 
for Cibot would break any man’s bones who insulted hig 
honor.” 

“ Dake goot gare of heems, my littel Matame Zipod,” 
returned Schmucke, trying to take Madame Cibot’s hand. 

‘ ‘ There ! you ’re at it again ! ” 

“ Leesten to me ; all I haf ees yours eef zo be as ve 
gan zafe heem.” 

“ Well ! I’ll go to the apothecary’s and get what’s 
wanted ; for you see, monsieur, this illness is going to 
cost a deal ; and how will you manage that? ” 

“ I vill vork. I eenzeest dat Bons moost be gared 
for laike a brinz.” 

“He shall be, my good Monsieur Schmucke, and 
don’t 3^ou fret about nothing. Cibot and I, we ’ve got 
two thousand francs laid by, — they are yours ; it ’s a 
long time, I can tell you, since I ’ve spent a penny of 
my own for j^ou two.” 

“ Goot greechur ! ” said Schmucke, wiping his eyes. 
“ Vat a heart ze has ! ” 

“ Dry those tears that honor me ; they are my re- 
ward!” cried the Cibot melodramatically. “There 


iJousin Pons. 


153 


ain^t a more disinterested creature nor me. But don’t 
you go in to Monsieur Pons with your eyes streaming ; 
for if you do, he ’ll think he ’s worse nor what he is.” 

Schmucke, touched by this show of feeling, got hold 
at last of Madame Cibot’s hand, and wrung it. 

“ Forgive me ! ” said the quondam oyster- woman, 
throwing Schmucke a tender glance. 

“ Bons,” said the good soul, going back to his friend, 
“MatameZipod ees ein anchel, — ajaddering anchel, 
pud ein anchel, all de zame.” 

“Do you think so? I have grown suspicious of 
every one this last month,” said the sick man, shaking 
his head. After such troubles as mine I can’t believe 
in any one but God, — and you ! ” 

“ Ged pedder, and ve vill lif togedder laike keengs,” 
cried Schmucke. 

“Cibot,” screamed his wife, out of breath, rushing 
into the porter’s lodge. “ Ah ! my friend, our fortune 
is made ! My two gentlemen have n’t got no heirs, and 
no natural children, and no nothing. I’m going to 
Madame Fontaine to get her to tell our fortune on the 
cards, and say how much annuity we are to get.” 

“Wife,” said the little man, “it’s ill waiting for 
dead men’s shoes.” 

“My gracious! are you going to plague me now?” 
she said, giving him a friendly tap. “ I know what I 
know. Monsieur Poulain sa^'s Monsieur Pons is going 
to die I We shall be rich I I shall be put in the will, 
I ’ll take good care o’ that ! You stitch away here, — 
you won’t be long at your trade now. We shall re- 
tire into the country, somewhere out there round 


154 


Cousin Pons, 


Batignolles ; hey ! a handsome house, and a fine 
garden ! you *11 like to take care of that, and I *11 have 
a servant!” 

“ Well, neighbor, how are you getting on upstairs?** 
asked R^monencq. “ Have you found out what that 
collection is worth ? ** 

“ No, no, not yet. Can’t get on as fast as all that, 
my good man. I began by finding out something much 
more important.** 

“More important!” cried R^monencq; “ wh}^ 
what’s more important?” 

“ Come, come, my lad, you let me sail the ship,” 
said Madame Cibot, domineeringly. 

“Well, but a fair percentage on a hundred thousand 
francs will make you live like a bourgeoise for the rest 
of your days.” 

“ Don’t you worry. Papa Remonencq. When it is 
necessary to know what those things the old fellow has 
picked up are worth, I ’ll see about it.” 

And Madame Cibot, after going to the. apothecary’s 
to get the doctor’s prescription made up, decided to put 
ofl* her consultation with Madame Fontaine till the 
morrow, fancying that she should find the faculties of 
that oracle more crisp and fresh in the early morning 
before the clients arrived, — for there was often a crowd 
at Madame Fontaine’s. 

After being, for forty years, the rival of the celebrated 
Mademoiselle Lenormand, whom she survived, Madame 
Fontaine was at the present time the oracle of the Ma- 
rais. Few persons have any idea of what such fortune- 
tellers are among the lower classes in Paris, or of the 
enormous infiuence they exercise over the decisions of 


Cousin Pons. 


155 


aneducated persons. Cooks, porters, kept mistresses, 
workpeople — all those whose lives are based on hopes — 
consult the privileged beings who possess the strange and 
inexplicable power of looking into futurity. The belief 
in occult science is far more widely spread than men of 
science, lawyers, notaries, doctors, magistrates, or phi- 
losophers, imagine. The masses have indestructible 
instincts. Among those instincts, the one so foolishly 
called superstition is as much in their blood as it is in 
the brains of superior persons. More than one French 
statesman consults these fortune-tellers. Judicial as- 
trology" (a grotesque conjunction of terms) is to the 
incredulous nothing more than speculation or traffic on 
an innate sentiment, perhaps the strongest of all in our 
nature, — curiosity. Such sceptics positively deny the 
relation that divination establishes between human des- 
tiny and the shaping of it which is obtained through the 
seven or eight principal methods that judicial astrology 
employs. But it is with occult science as it has been 
with so many natural phenomena ignored by freethinkers 
and materialistic philosophers, — that is to say, all 
those who hold exclusively^ to visible facts, solid results, 
the yieldings of the retort, or the scales of modern 
physics and chemistry. Occult science has neverthe- 
less existed and continued to advance, though without 
making much progress, because for the last two cen- 
turies the finer minds have abandoned the study of it. 

According to the matter-of-fact view of divination, 
to believe that the past events of a man’s life and the 
secrets known only to himself can instantly be revealed 
on the cards which he shuffies and cuts, and which the 
reader of his horoscope divides, by some mysterious rule. 


156 


Cousin Pons, 


into various little heaps, is an absurdity. Yet steam 
was condemned as an absurdity ; so is aerial navigation ; 
BO was the invention of gunpowder, the printing-press, 
spectacles, the art of engraving, and even the last great 
invention of the present day, the daguerreotype. If any 
one had gone to Napoleon and told him that a building 
or a man projects, at all moments and perpetuallj^, an 
image upon the atmosphere, and that all existing ob- 
jects have, within that atmosphere, a perceptible and 
obtainable spectre or shape, he would have promptly 
sent his informant to Charenton, just as Richelieu sent 
Salomon de Caux to Bicetre, when that Norman marty r 
offered him the vast conquest of steam navigation. Nev- 
ertheless, that is what the discovery of Daguerre has 
proved to the world. Well, then, if God has, to certain 
clear-seeing eyes, imprinted the destiny of every man 
upon his physiognomy (meaning by that word the expres- 
sion of his whole body) , why should not the hand be an 
epitome of that physiognomy, inasmuch as it is in itself 
the whole of human action, and the sole means of its 
manifestation ? Hence chiromancy. Society copies God. 
To predict the coming events of a man’s life by the as- 
pect of his hand, is a feat not at all more extraordinary in 
one who possesses the faculties of a Seer than it is for any 
of us to tell a soldier that he will fight, a lawyer that he 
will speak, a shoemaker that he will make shoes, a hus- 
bandman that he will manure the earth and tiU it. Let 
us take a striking instance. Genius is so visible in 
man, that the most ignorant of his fellows walking the 
streets of Paris recognizes a great artist as he passes 
along. He is like a spiritual sun whose rays light up 
all on whom they fall. Observe also that the deficien- 


Cousin Pons, 


157 


cies of an imbecile are revealed immediately by an in- 
version of the impression produced by genius. Com- 
monplace men, on the other hand, pass almost unnoticed. 
Most observers of social and Parisian human nature can 
tell at a .glance the profession of men who pass them 
in the street. In these days the mysteries of the 
witches’ Sabbath, so fully pictured by the great masters 
of the sixteenth century, are mysteries no longer ; the 
Eg^^ptian sorcerers, male and female, progenitors of 
that strange race, the Gypsies of Bohemia, coming origi- 
nally from India, simply made their votaries eat has- 
chisch. The phenomena produced by that drug amply 
explain the broomsticks of the witches ; their flights up 
the chimneys ; the real visions^ so to speak, of old 
women changed to young ones ; the frenzied dances, and 
the entrancing music which filled the phantasmagoric 
dreams of those pretended worshippers of the Devil. 

In these days so many authentic and established facts 
have come to light by means of the occult sciences, that 
before long those sciences will be taught just as we now 
teach chemistry and astronomy. It is surprising that at 
this moment in Paris where they are creating professor- 
ships of the Slav and Mantchoo and other futile litera- 
tures of the North, they have not revived, under the name 
of Anthropology, the teaching of occult philosophy, — 
one of the glories of the ancient University. In this re- 
spect, Germany, a nation so great and yet so childlike, has 
outrun France, for there they have revived this science, 
— a science far more useful than the various Philosophies 
which are, in point of fact, all the same thing. 

That certain created beings should have the power of 
foreseeing events in the germ of causes, just as a great 


158 


Cousin Pons, 


inventor sees an art or a science in some natural phe- 
nomenon unobserved by the ordinar}’’ mind, is by no 
means one of those abnormal exceptions to the order of 
things that excite a clamor ; it is simply the working 
of an obscure natural faculty, which is, in a measure, the 
somnambulism of the spirit. This proposition, on which 
every method of deciphering the future rests, may or 
ma}" not be called absurd, — the fact remains. Observe 
also that for the Seer to predict the general events of 
the future is no greater exhibition of power than to re- 
veal the secrets of the past. In the creed of the incred- 
ulous the past and the future are alike undiscoverable. 
If past events have left their traces, it is reasonable to 
infer that coming events have their roots. Whenever a 
soothsayer tells you, minutelj', facts of your past life 
known to yourself alone, he can surely tell you the events 
which existing causes will produce. The moral world is 
cut out, so to speak, on the pattern of the natural world ; 
the same effects will be found everywhere, with the differ- 
ences proper to varied environments. Thus, just as 
the bod}^ is actually projected upon the atmosphere, and 
leaves within it the spectre which the daguerreotype 
seizes, so ideas, real and potential creations, imprint 
themselves upon what we must call the atmosphere of the 
spiritual world, produce effects upon it, remain there 
spectrally (it is necessary’ to coin words to express these 
unnamed phenomena) ; and hence, certain created beings 
endowed with rare faculties can clearly perceive these 
forms, or these traces of ideas. ^ 

^ Balzac here, as elsewhere, shows himself well grounded in doctrines 
now-a-days called theosophical, though they antedate theosophy by 
thousands of years. The phenomenon so lucidly described in the above 


Cousin Pons. 


As to the means emplo3^ed to obtain such visions^ 
the marvel of them is readily explained as soon as the* 
hand of the inquirer has arranged the objects b}" the aid 
of which he is to be shown the incidents of his life. All 
things are linked together in the phenomenal world, 
Ever^" motion springs from a cause ; every cause is a 
part of the Whole ; consequently" the whole exists in 
the slightest motion. Rabelais — the greatest mind in 
the humanity^ of modern times, a man who combined 
within himself Pythagoras, Hippocrates, Aristophanes, 
and Dante — declared, three centuries ago, that man was 
a microcosm ; Swedenborg, the great Swedish prophet, 
said that the earth was man : the prophet and the pre- 
cursor of scepticism met upon the ground of this greatest 
of all formulas. All things are predestined and fore- 
known in the life of man as in the life of his planet. 
The smallest chances and changes, even the most futile 
and insignificant, are under a law. Consequently, great 
events, great purposes, great thoughts, have their 
necessary reflex in lesser thoughts, lesser actions ; and 
this law is so strict, that if some conspirator were 
to shuffle and cut a pack of cards, he would write, 
in so doing, the secrets of his conspiracy to be read 
by- the Seer, otherwise called Bohemian, gy^sy^i fortune- 
teller, charlatan, etc. As soon as we admit necessity, 
that is to say, the connection of causes, judicial as- 
trology will be seen to exist, and will become what 
it once was, a vast science ; for it comprises that 
faculty of deduction which made Cuvier so great, 

passage is that of the Astral Light. Desbarrolles, in his remarkable 
book on Chiromancy, has much to say about Balzac’s knowledge of 
occult science. — Tk. 


160 


Cousin Pons. 


using it, however, spontaneously, and not as that 
fine genius did, laboriously in studious hours with the 
midnight oil. 

Judicial astrology, that is, divination, reigned for 
seven centuries ; not as to-day over the masses, but 
over the loftiest minds, over sovereigns, over queens, 
over the wealthy: One of the greatest sciences of 
antiquity, animal magnetism, sprang from the occult 
sciences, just as chemistry issued from the retorts of 
the alchemists. Phrenolog}", physiognomies, and neu- 
rology were still other products of it ; and the creators 
of those sciences (styled novel) made but one error, — 
an error common to all inventors, — that of generalizing 
from isolated facts whose generating cause still escapes 
analysis. In due time the Church, modern Philosophy, 
and Law joined hands to proscribe, persecute, and ridi- 
cule the mysteries of the Kabbala and its adepts ; 
thence came a most unfortunate gap of a century in the 
supremacy and study of occult science. Nevertheless, 
the masses and many persons of intelligence, women 
especiall}", have continued to do homage to the mj^steri- 
ous power of those who are able to lift the veil of the fu- 
ture. They go to them to buy hope, courage, strength, — 
in other words, all that religion alone can give. So 
this science is still practised, though not without cer- 
tain risks. Sorcerers of the present day, being safe 
from torture, thanks to the tolerance won by the en- 
cj'clopedists of the eighteenth century, can now be 
arraigned onl}^ in the criminal police courts, and there, 
only in case they practise fraud, or terrify their clients 
for the purpose of extorting money, — offences which 
come under the charge of swindling. Unfortunately 


Cousin Pons, 


161 


such swindling, and even actual crimes, too often ac- 
company the exercise of this sublime faculty. Let us 
explain the reason why. 

The splendid gifts which make a Seer are usually 
found among those whom society calls “ common, or un- 
clean.” These brutish beings are the chosen vessels in 
whom God has poured the elixirs which amaze humanity. 
Such beings have furnished the prophets, the Saint 
Peters, the hermits of history. Whenever thought can 
be kept to its integrity, rounded as it were within itself, 
when it is not frittered in conversation, or spent in 
schemes, in literary work, in the speculation of science, 
in administrative effort, in the conceptions of an in- 
ventor, in the service of war, it is apt to burn with 
repressed fires of prodigious intensity, just as the un- 
cut diamond holds its rays within itself. Let the occa- 
sion come, and at once this spiritual force breaks out ; 
it has wings to waft it over space, the eye divine that 
sees the all of existence : yesterday it was carbon ; to- 
morrow, under the flow of the mysterious fluid which 
pervades it, it is a diamond of the purest water. Men 
of superior mind, with all the facets of their intel- 
lect well worn, can never exercise these supreme pow- 
ers unless through miracles, which God occasionally 
permits. Thus it happens that necromancers and for- 
tune-tellers, both male and female, are nearly always 
mendicants with untutored minds, beings apparently of 
coarse fibre, pebbles rolled over and over by the tor- 
rents of poverty, ground down in the ruts of existence, 
where they have exhausted only their physical endur- 
ance. The prophet, the seer, is Martin the laborer, who 
made Louis XVIII. tremble as he told him a secret 
11 


162 


Cousin Pons. 


known only to the king ; it is a Mademoiselle Lenor- 
mand, a cook like Madame Fontaine, some half-idiotic 
negro-woman, some herdsman living among his horned 
beasts, a fakir sitting on the bank of a pagoda, who 
by killing the flesh has won for the spirit the untold 
powers of somnambulic faculties. It is in Asia that 
the heroes of occult science have been found through- 
out all time. 

It often happens that persons gifted with these pow- 
ers who in their ordinary lives remain their ordinary 
selves, — for they fulfil as it were the same physical 
and chemical functions as the conducting medium of 
an electric current, sometimes mere inert metal, then 
again the channel of mysterious fluids, — these peo- 
ple, sinking back into their natural condition, betake 
themselves to practices and schemes which bring them 
into the police-courts ; and even, as in the case of the 
famous Balthazar, to prison or the galleys. A proof 
of the enormous power which necromancy wields over 
the masses, is that the life or death of a poor musi- 
cian depended on the horoscope which Madame Fon- 
taine was about to draw for Madame Cibot. 

Though certain repetitions are inevitable in so exten- 
sive a work, and one so laden with detail as a complete 
history of French society in the nineteenth century must 
necessarily be, it is useless to depict the den of Madame 
Fontaine, which has already been described in “ Les 
Comediens sans le savoir.” It is necessary, however, 
to remark that Madame Cibot frequented Madame Fon- 
taine, who lived in the rue Vieille-du-Temple, very 
much as the habitues of the Cafe Anglais go to break- 
fast at that establishment. Madame Cibot, a very old 


Cousin Pons. 


163 


customer, often carried in her train the young people 
and gossips of the neighborhood, enticed by curiosity. 

The old servant who served as a marshal to the 
oracle, opened the door of the sanctuary without giving 
notice to her mistress. 

“ It is Madame Cibot ! Come in,” she added, “ there ’s 
no one here.” 

“Well, my dear, what has brought you so early?” 
said the sorceress. 

Madame Fontaine, then sixty-eight years of age, 
deserved that title for her personal appearance, which 
was worthy of the Parcae. 

“I’m all upside down ; give me the Grand Magic ! ” 
cried Madame Cibot ; “ my fortune is at stake.” 

And she forthwith explained the situation and de- 
manded a prophecy on her sordid hopes. 

“ You do not know what the Grand Magic really is,” 
said Madame Fontaine, solemnly. 

“No, I hain’t never been rich enough to play that 
game ! A hundred francs ! No, indeed ! where do 3’ou 
suppose I could have got a hundred francs ? But now ! 
yes, to-daj" I want it ! ” 

“I don’t often try it, my dear,” said Madame Fon- 
taine. “I onlj" give it to rich people On great occa- 
sions, and then thej" pay me twenty-five louis. The 
truth is, don’t you see, it tires me, it wears me out. 
The Spirit shakes up my vitals — down there, in my 
stomach. It is like stirring the caldron, as they did in 
the olden time.” 

“But when I tell you, my good Ma’ame Fontaine, 
that my fortune depends on it ! ” 

“Well, I owe 3^ou so many consultations — yes, I 


164 


Cousin Pons. 


will give myself up to the Spirit,*’ answered Madame 
Fontaine, her withered face showing an expression of 
terror that was not simulated. 

She left the dirty sofa, on which she had been sitting 
in the chimney-corner, and went to a table, covered 
with a green cloth so worn that the threads could be 
counted in it, on the left of which a toad of enormous 
dimensions lay asleep beside an open cage, which was 
inhabited by a black hen with ruffled feathers. 

“Astaroth! here, my son!” said the old woman, 
giving a slight tap with a long knitting-needle on the 
back of the toad, which looked up at her intelligently. 
“And 3^ou, Mademoiselle Cleopatra! attention!” she 
added, giving another little tap on the beak of the old 
hen. Madame Fontaine then wrapped herself in medi- 
tation, remaining motionless for several minutes. She 
looked like a dead woman ; her eyes were turned up- 
ward so that only the whites were seen. Suddenly she 
stilfened herself, and said in a cavernous voice ; — 

“ I am here ! ” 

Then, after automatically strewing some grain for 
Cleopatra, she took up the cards, shuffled them convul- 
sively, and made Madame Cibot cut them, all the while 
sighing deeply. While this spectre of death in a dirty 
turban, wrapped in a sinister mantle, examined the 
grains of millet, and ordered her toad Astaroth to 
creep over the cards which were spread on the table, 
Madame Cibot felt cold chills running down her back, 
and shuddered. It is only great beliefs which give great 
emotions. To have or not to have an annuity — that 
was the question, as Shakspeare says. 


Cousin Pons, 


166 


XIV. 


A CHARACTER OUT OF HOFFMAN. 

At the end of seven or eight minutes, in the course of 
which the sorceress opened and read from a conjuring 
book in a sepulchral voice, and examined the grains of 
millet which the hen had left, and the track made by the 
toad as it crept away, she turned her livid eyes upon 
the cards, and expounded their meaning. 

“You will succeed! though nothing will happen as 
you expect,” she said. “ You will have many steps to 
take, but you will gather the fruits of your labor. You 
will do great wrong : it will be with you as it is with all 
those who are near sick people and covet their wealth. 
You will be helped in your evil deeds by people of con- 
sequence. Later, you will repent in the agonies of 
death ; for you will die, assassinated by two escaped 
convicts, — one, a small man with red hair, the other 
old and bald, — on account of the property which you 
will be supposed to have, in the village to which you will 
retire with your second husband. Go, my daughter ; 
you are free to act, or to remain as you are.” 

The inward fire which lit the torches in the hollow 
eyes of the skeleton so dead and cold apparently, 
suddenly went out. No sooner was the horoscope 
pronounced than Madame Fontaine seemed dazed, 
and in all respects like a somnambulist when suddenly 


166 


Cousin Pons. 


awakened ; she looked about her with a bewildered 
air, then she recognized Madame Cibot, and expressed 
surprise at the horror depicted on her face. 

“What is it, my daughter?” she said, in a voice 
quite different from the one in which she had prophe- 
sied ; “ are you satisfied? ” 

Madame Cibot looked at the sorceress as if stupefied, 
and was unable to answer. 

“ Ah ! you would have the Grand Magic ! I treated 
you as an old acquaintance. Give me the hundred 
francs — ” 

“ Cibot — to die ! ” cried her client. 

“Have I told you dreadful things?” asked Madame 
Fontaine, quite simpl3^ 

‘ ‘ Wh)'^, yes ! ” said Madame Cibot, pulling the hun- 
dred francs from her pocket and putting them on a 
corner of the table. “ To die ! assassinated ! ” 

“See there, now! you would have the Grand 
Magic I You need n’t be troubled ; all people who are 
killed b}" the cards don’t die.” 

“ But ain’t it likely", Ma’ame Fontaine?” 

“ Ah I my good woman, I don’t know an^^thing 
about it m\’self! You would rap at the door of the 
future, and I pulled the cord, — that ’s all, and He 
came.” 

“He? who is he? ” asked Madame Cibot. 

“Well! the Spirit, or whatever it is,” replied the 
sorceress, impatientlj". 

“ Good-bj", Ma’ame Fontaine,” cried her votary. 
“I didn’t know what the Grand Magic was: ^"ou’ve 
frightened me dreadfully", I can tell y’ou.” 

‘ ‘ Madame does not put herself into that state twice 


Cousin Pons. 


167 


a month,” said the servant- woman, following Madame 
Cibot to the landing. “ She will die of it some day ; 
it tires her so. Now she ’ll eat some mutton-chops and 
sleep for three hours.” 

Once in the street, Madame Cibot did as inquirers 
after advice of all kinds invariably do : she believed in 
the prophecy so far as it was favorable to her wishes, 
and doubted the rest. The next day, confirmed in her 
resolutions, she thought only of finding some way of en- 
riching herself by getting hold of a part of the Pons mu- 
seum, and for a time her mind dwelt on no other thought. 
The phenomenon which we lately explained, — that of 
the concentration of moral force in common people, who 
never having wasted their intellectual faculties, like the 
educated classes, in daily activit}^, find those faculties 
in full strength and power at the moment when their 
minds become possessed of the formidable weapon called 
a fixed idea, — now appeared with great vigor in Ma- 
dame Cibot. Just as a fixed idea can manage wonder- 
ful escapes and give rise to miracles of sentiment, this 
woman, urged by cupidity, became as powerful as a 
Nucingen at bay, and as ready-witted beneath her stu- 
pidity as the bewitching La Palferine. 

A few days later, seeing Remonencq opening his shut- 
ters about seven o’clock in the morning, she went up to 
him as stealthily as a cat. 

“ How shall I manage to find out the truth about the 
value of those things my gentlemen have scraped to- 
gether ? ” she asked him. 

“ Oh! that’s easy enough,” he replied in his horri- 
ble Auvergnat dialect, which for the clearness of this 
narrative we refrain from reproducing here. “ If you ’ll 


168 


Cousin Pons. 


deal fair with me I ’ll bring you an appraiser, a very 
honest man, who will know the value of those pictures 
to a penny.” 

“ Who is that? ” 

“Monsieur Magus, a Jew, who only does business 
now for his own pleasure.” 

6lie Magus, too. well known to the readers of the 
“Comedy of Human Life” to require a description here, 
had lately retired from the business of selling pictures 
and curiosities, in which as a merchant he followed the 
same system that Pons pursued as an amateur. The 
celebrated judges and appraisers, the late Henry, Mes- 
sieurs Pigeot and Moret, Theret, Georges, and Roehn, 
in fact all the experts of the Mus4e, were mere chil- 
dren compared to Elie Magus, who could discover a 
masterpiece under the dirt of ages, and who knew all 
the schools and the signature of all the painters. 

This Jew, who came originally from Bordeaux, gave 
up his business in 1834, without, however, giving up the 
squalid appearance and habits which he retained, like 
the majority of the Jews, with the fidelity of the race to 
its traditions. Persecution compelled the Jews of the 
Middle Ages to go in rags, so as to disarm suspicion 
and have the right to complain and whine, and thus 
draw attention to their poverty. These compulsions of 
the olden time have produced, as always happens, a race- 
instinct, an endemic vice. 6lie Magus, by dint of buy- 
ing diamonds and reselling them, of selling pictures 
and laces, choice bric-k-brac, enamels, fine carvings, 
and old jewelry at second-hand, possessed an immense 
fortune of unknown amount, acquired in this business 
which has since grown so considerable. The number 


Cousin Pons, 


169 


of such dealers has increased tenfold within the last 
twenty years in Paris, where sooner or later all the 
curiosities of the world make their appearance. As 
for pictures, there are but three cities in which thej' can 
be said to be sold, — Rome, London, and Paris. 

Elie Magus lived in the Chaussee des Minimes, a 
long, narrow street leading to the Place Roy ale, where 
he owned an old mansion, bought, as they say, for a 
song in 1831. This building contained one of the finest 
and most superbly decorated appartements of the Louis 
XV. period, for it was the old Hotel de Maulaincourt. 
Built by the celebrated judge of the Cour des Aides, it 
escaped, thanks to its situation, the pillage of the Revo- 
lution. If the old Jew, contrary to the traditions of his 
race, came to the determination of owning it, we may be 
sure he had his reasons. The old man was ending his 
career, as we all end, by riding a hobby into a mania. 
Though as miserly by nature as his friend the late Gob- 
seck, he allowed his admiration for the masterpieces he 
dealt in to get the better of his thrift ; and his taste, 
becoming more and more refined and difficult to sat- 
isfy, had of late grown into the sort of passion which is 
only permissible to kings when they are rich and lov- 
ers of art. Like the second king of Prussia, who never 
praised a soldier unless the man were over six feet 
high, and who spent inordinate sums of money in add- 
ing to his live gallery of grenadiers, the old dealer grew 
enthusiastic over none but immaculate pictures, left as 
the hand of the master painted them, and of the highest 
order of execution. Elie Magus was never absent from 
the great sales ; he visited all the picture marts, and 
travelled over the whole of Europe for that purpose. 


170 


Cousin Pons, 


His nature, bound down to lucre, cold as an iceberg, 
nevertheless grew impassioned at the sight of a master- 
piece, — precisely as a libertine, weary of pleasure, grows 
eager at the sight of a perfect 3"Oung girl, and devotes 
himself to a quest for beaut}" without defects. This 
Don Juan among pictures, this worshipper of the ideal, 
found greater enjo3"ment in such worship than the miser 
finds in the contemplation of his gold. He lived in 
a harem of beautiful pictures. 

These masterpieces, lodged as the children of princes 
ought to be lodged, occupied the whole of the first floor 
of the old mansion, which Elie Magus had restored with 
the utmost splendor. Before the windows hung curtains 
of Venetian gold brocade ; on the floors were the mag- 
nificent rugs of La Savonnerie, a roj’al manufactor}" of 
carpets at Chaillot. The pictures, numbering about a 
hundred, were in the choicest frames, regilt with ex- 
quisite taste by the onl}" gilder that Elie Magus consid- 
ered conscientious, — by Servais, whom the old Jew 
taught to use English gilding, a leaf infinitely superior to 
that of the French gold-beaters. Servais is to the art 
of gilding what Thouvenin was to the art of binding, — 
an artist in love with his own work. The windows of 
this suite were protected by iron shutters. The master 
himself lived in two small rooms with attic roofs, on the 
second floor, poorly furnished, full of his ragged cloth- 
ing and smelling of his race. He was ending his life 
just as he had lived it. 

The ground-floor, wholl}" filled with pictures, which the 
Jew still continued to barter, and with cases arriving 
from foreign countries, contained also an immense ate- 
lier, where Moret (the best restorer of our da}" and a man 


Cousin Pons. 


ITl 


the Musee ought to employ) worked almost exclusively 
for 6lie Magus. There too was the appartement of his 
daughter, the fruit of his old age, a Jewess as beautiful 
as all of her race when they show the Asiatic type in its 
purity and grandeur. Noemi, watched over by two 
fanatical Jewish servants, was guarded at the outposts 
by a Polish Jew named Abramko, who had been com- 
promised under extraordinary circumstances during the 
Polish insurrection, and rescued by Elie Magus for pur- 
poses of self-interest. Abramko was the porter of the 
silent, gloomy, desolate house, and he lived in a lodge 
protected by three dogs of remarkable ferocity, — one a 
Newfoundland ; another a Pyrenees hound ; the third 
an English bull-dog. 

Relying on such protection, the Jew was able to 
travel from home without fear, and sleep the sleep of 
the just, dreading no assault upon his daughter, who 
was his chief treasure, nor upon his pictures, nor yet 
upon his gold. Abramko was paid every j’ear two 
hundred francs more than the preceding year, on the 
express understanding that he should have nothing at 
all at the death of his master, who was meantime train- 
ing him to become the money-lender of the quarter. 
Abramko never admitted any one into the house until 
he had examined him through the formidable iron 
grating of the door. This Pole — a man of herculean 
strength — adored Elie Magus, just as Sancho Panza 
adored Don Quixote. The dogs, shut up during the 
day, were let out at night, and compelled by an astute 
arrangement of the old Jew to keep, each of them, to 
his appointed station, — one in the garden, at the foot 
of a pole at the top of which hung a piece of meat ; the 


172 


Cousin Pons, 


second in the courtyard, at the foot of a similar pole ; 
and the third in the great hall on the ground-floor. It 
is needless to remark that the dogs, who thus by instinct 
guarded the premises, were themselves guarded by hun- 
ger, and that the loveliest female of their race could not 
have enticed them awaj^ from those poles ; no attrac- 
tions whatever could have got them to leave that meat. 
If a stranger appeared, they thought he was after it ; 
and it was onty given to them in the morning when 
Abramko got up. This devilish sort of submission had 
one immense advantage : the dogs never barked. Elie's 
wit advanced them to the grade of savages, and they 
had each become as wily as a Mohican. On one occa- 
sion certain ill-disposed persons, misled by this silence, 
thought it would be easy to “ crack” the Jew’s strong- 
hold. One of them, sent ahead to scale the wall of the 
garden, attempted to descend on the other side. The 
bull-dog let him alone, though he heard him perfectly, 
until the man’s leg came within reach of his jaw, when 
he bit the foot ofl* at the ankle and ate it up. The rob- 
ber had the nerve to recross the wall, stepping on the 
bone of his leg, and fell fainting into the arms of his 
companions, who carried him OS’. This fact, when it 
appeared in the ‘‘ Gazette des Tribunaux,” which did 
not fail to report such a delightful episode of the Pari- 
sian night, was called a hoax. 

Magus, at this time seventy-five j^ears old, was quite 
likely to live to be a hundred. Rich as he was, he lived 
like Remonencq. Three thousand francs defrayed all 
his expenses, including the luxuries he allowed his 
daughter. No existence was ever more methodical 
than his. He rose at daybreak, and ate a bit of bread 


Cousin Pons. 


173 


rubbed over with garlic, — a breakfast which sufficed 
him till the dinner-hour. The dinner, monastic in its 
frugality, was a family repast. From the time he got 
up until midday the old fanatic roamed about the rooms, 
which were adorned by his pictures. He dusted every- 
thing himself, both furniture and paintings, and admired 
all in turn, without any sense of weariness. Then he 
went downstairs to see his daughter, and drank his fill 
of paternal happiness. After that he started on his 
quests around Paris, — looked into all the auction- 
rooms, went to the exhibitions, etc. When he discov- 
ered some masterpiece which fulfilled all the require- 
ments he deemed essential, the man’s life seemed to 
take on new vigor : he had a bargain to make, a Maren- 
go to win, and he laid scheme after scheme to get his 
new sultana at the lowest price. Magus had a map of 
Europe on which the locations of the great masterpieces 
were laid down ; and he commissioned his co-religionists 
in all countries to watch every sale in his interests, un- 
der promise of a recompense. But what recompenses 
they were for such pains ! 

The two lost pictures of Raphael, so long and so per- 
sistently searched for by the Raphaelites, were in the 
possession of Elie Magus. He owned also the original 
of Giorgione’s mistress, — the woman for whom the 
painter died, — and the other so-called originals are only 
copies of this glorious canvas, which in the old Jew’s 
estimation was worth five hundred thousand francs. 
Magus also treasured the masterpiece of Titian, — 
“His Entombment ; ” a picture painted for Charles V., 
and sent by the great master to the great emperor with 
a letter written wholly in Titian’s hand, which letter is 


174 


Cousin Pons, 


glued to the bottom of the canvas. He had, moreover, 
the original sketch by the same painter from which all 
the portraits of Philip II. were made. The ninety-seven 
other pictures were of the same calibre and distinction. 
Magus scorned our Mus^, drenched as it is with sun- 
light, which makes havoc with the noblest pictures as 
it streams through the casements with the force of a 
lens. No picture-gallery is safe unless lighted from the 
ceiling. Magus opened and closed the blinds of his 
museum himself, and took as much care and as many 
precautions for his pictures as he did for his daughter, 
— his other idol. Ah, the old picture-maniac well 
knew the laws of painting ! To his mind the master- 
pieces had a life of their own, their diurnal times and 
seasons ; their beaut}" depended on the light which came 
at certain moments to tint them. He talked of them as 
the Dutch used to talk of their tulips ; and he went to 
see such or such a picture at the hour when the splendor 
of its glory shone forth, if the weather were fine and 
clear. 

In the midst of these still and silent pictures the little 
old man himself was a living picture as he stood there, — 
clothed in a shabby frock-coat, an antiquated silk waist- 
coat, a pair of dirty trousers, with his bald head, hollow 
cheeks, menacing pointed chin, and stubbly, strag- 
gling white beard ; with his mouth empty of teeth, his 
bony, fieshless hands, his nose long and angular as an 
obelisk, his wrinkled, frigid skin, and his eyes keen as 
those of the dogs, — smiling at these glorious creations 
of genius. A Jew surrounded by his millions will 
always be one of the finest sights humanity can offer. 
Our great actor, Robert Medal, sublime as he is, has 


Cousin Pons, 


175 


never attained to the poetry of it. Paris is the first 
city in the world for its collection of such originals, — 
originals of a kind that have a worship in their hearts. 
The hobbyists of London end by growing disgusted 
with the objects of their adoration, just as they grow 
disgusted with life itself ; whereas in Paris such mono- 
maniacs live forever with their fancies in a happy con- 
cubinage of spirit. You will often meet such beings as 
Pons or Elie Magus, shabbily clothed, with their nose 
in the air, like that of the secretary in perpetuity of the 
French Academy, — seeming to care for nothing, to 
feel nothing ; paying no attention to women or to the 
shops ; wandering as it were hap-hazard, their pockets 
empty, their brains apparently still emptier, — and you 
ask 3 'ourself to what Parisian tribe such beings can be- 
long. Well, those men are millionnaires, collectors, 
the most passionately devoted souls upon earth ; people 
who are capable of putting themselves within the grasp 
of the law to get possession of a tazza, a painting, a 
choice treasure, — as in fact 6lie Magus did on one 
occasion, in Germany. 

Such was the great expert to whom Remonencq took 
Madame Cibot with the utmost secrecy. The Auverg- 
nat was in the habit of consulting the Jew whenever 
they chanced to meet on the boulevards. Magus, at 
various times, had made Abramko lend money to 
Remonencq, whose honesty in such matters he could 
rely on. The Chaussee des Minimes being only a few 
steps from the rue de Normandie the accomplices were 
there in ten minutes. 

“ You are going to see,” said Remonencq, “ the 


176 


Cousin Pons. 


wealthiest of all the famous curiosity-dealers ; the 
greatest connoisseur there is in Paris.” 

Madame Cibot was therefore dumbfounded when she 
found herself in presence of a little old man, wrapped 
in a wadded great-coat, past darning even by the hand 
of Cibot, who was overlooking the work of his restorer, 
a painter employed in repairing pictures in a cold room 
on the vast ground-floor ; then, catching a glance from 
his eyes, as full of cold malevolence as those of a cat, 
she trembled. 

“ What do you want, Rdmonencq? ” he said. 

“ It is about estimating some pictures,” answered the 
Auvergnat. “ There’s no one in Paris but you who can 
tell a poor coppersmith like me what he ought to give 
for them, when he has n’t, as you have, millions to 
spend.” 

“ Where are they ? ” said ^lie Magus. 

“Here is the concierge of the house where their 
owner lives ; I ’ve arranged with her — ” 

“ What is the owner’s name?” 

“ Monsieur Pons,” said Madame Cibot. 

“ I don’t know him,” said Magus, with an indifferent 
air, gently pressing his own foot against that of the 
restorer. 

Moret, the restorer, who knew the value of Pons’s 
collection, had suddenly looked up. The Jew’s warn- 
ing could only have been given under the eyes of such 
a pair as Remonencq and Madame Cibot. But he 
had taken the moral measure of the woman by a 
glance of his eyes, which were as sure as the scales in 
which a money-changer weighs his gold. The pair were 
undoubtedly ignorant that Pons and £lie Magus had 


Cousin Pons, 


177 


often measured swords. In fact, those fierce amateurs 
were filled with envy of each other. The old Jew 
actually staggered for a moment. He had never hoped 
for a chance to penetrate that well-watched harem. The 
Pons collection alone could rival the ^llie Magus collec- 
tion. The Jew had followed twenty years later the same 
system as Pons ; and in his capacity as amateur-dealer 
the Pons gallery had been as tightly closed against him 
as against the late Du Sommerard. Pons and Magus 
were both jealous at heart of all approach. Neither 
liked the celebrity which the owners of choice galleries 
usually court. To examine the magnificent collection 
of the poor musician was, for 6lie Magus, as great a 
happiness as for a lover of women to slip into the bou- 
doir of a beauty whom his friend sedulously hides from 
him. 

The great respect shown by Remonencq to this queer 
individual, and the prestige which all visible power be- 
stows, made Madame Cibot obedient and complying. 
She lost the autocratic tone she was in the habit of 
using to the tenants and her “ two gentlemen,” ac- 
cepted the terms proposed by Magus, and agreed to let 
him into the Musee-Pons that very day. It was lead- 
ing the enemy into the heart of the fortress, plunging 
a knife into the bosom of Pons, who for the last ten 
years had strictly forbidden her to admit a soul, no 
matter who, inside the sacred portals, the key of which 
he carried on his person ; and Madame Cibot had faith- 
fully obeyed him so long as she shared the opinions of 
Schmucke on the subject of bric-a-brac. The fact was, 
that worthy German, when discoursing about those 
magnificent “pauples,” and deploring the follies of 
12 


178 


Cousin Pons, 


Pons, had inculcated in Madame Cibot’s ample breast 
a profound contempt for all such antiquities, and 
had thus for a long time protected the Musee-Pons 
from invasion. 

Now that Pons was confined to his bed, Schmucke 
did his friend’s work at the theatre and in the schools. 
The poor German, who saw the sick man onlj’ in 
the morning and after he came home to dinner in the 
evening, endeavored to supply their domestic needs by 
doing their joint work and keeping together their whole 
clientele ; but all his strength was spent on the task, for 
his inward grief overpowered him. Noticing the sad- 
ness of the poor man, the pupils and the people at the 
theatre who knew about the illness of poor Pons asked 
for news of him, and the grief of the old musician was 
so genuine that he received, even from the careless and 
indiflerent, that grimace of conventional sensibility which 
Paris bestows on the direst catastrophes. Schmucke suf- 
fered doubl}^, — in his own grief and in his friend’s suf- 
ferings. He talked of Pons during half the time of each 
lesson, and interrupted his instructions so often to won- 
der how his friend was feeling, that the young pupils 
listened with real interest to his accounts of the old 
man’s illness. He would rush to the rue de Normandie 
between two lessons, merely to see Pons for ten minutes. 
Alarmed at the emptiness of their common purse, and 
uneasy at the way Madame Cibot for the last fifteen 
days had been running up their expenses, the poor 
music-master nevertheless felt his inward anguish con- 
trolled by a courage of which he had never believed 
himself capable. For the first time in his life he was 
anxious to earn money, so that the home might want 


Cousin Pons, 


179 


for nothing. At times when some pupil, really touched 
by the trouble of the two friends, would ask Schmucke 
how he could bear to leave his friend so much alone, he 
answered with a sublime smile of ingenuous credulity, — 

“ Matemoizelle, he has Matame Zipod, — a drayzure ! 
a bearl ! Bons ees daken gare of laike a brinz.” 

So while Schmucke was trotting the streets, Madame 
Cibot was mistress of the appartement and of the pa- 
tient. How could Pons, who had eaten nothing for fif- 
teen days, and lay helpless on his back, and was lifted 
by Madame Cibot and placed on a sofa when she made 
his bed, — how could he watch his self-styled guardian 
angel ? 

Madame Cibot had made her visit to ijlie Magus 
while Schmucke was eating his breakfast. She got 
home just as the German was bidding the sick man 
good-by. Since the revelation made to her of Pons’s 
wealth she rarely left her old celibate, and brooded 
over him like a hen. She daily settled herself on a 
comfortable sofa at the foot of the bed, and diverted 
the patient’s mind by telling him the sort of gossip such 
women excel in. She grew coaxing, gentle, watchful, 
careful for his comfort, and wormed herself into the 
old man’s thoughts with a cleverness that was truly 
Machiavellian, as we shall presently have occasion to 


180 


Qoudn Pons. 


XV. 

THE CACKLE AND SCHEMES OF AN OLD WOMAN. 

Much alarmed by the prediction of the oracle’s Grand 
Magic, Madame Cibot had sworn to herself that she 
would succeed in her plans b}" none but gentle means, 
and get into “ her gentleman’s ” will only by evil-doings 
that should be strictly moral. Her ten years’ ignorance 
of the value of the Pons Museum were just so many 
years of disinterested devotion and integrity in hand ; 
and she now proposed to draw upon that magnificent 
capital. Since the day when Remonencq, with a golden 
word, had hatched a serpent hidden in its shell for over 
twenty-five years in the heart of this woman, — namely, 
the desire for riches, — she had nourished the viper on 
the poisonous leaven which lies like a sediment at the 
bottom of such hearts : we shall now see how she exe- 
cuted the advice which the serpent hissed into her ear. 

“ Well, has he taken his drink, the dear cherub ; is 
he better?” she said to Schmucke. 

“Nopedder! my tear Matame Zipod, no pedder!” 
answered the German, wiping away a tear. 

“Pooh! you mustn’t never get so frightened, my 
dear monsieur ; take it easy. If Cibot lay at the point 
of death, I could n’t be no sorrier nor you. There, there ! 
our dear cherub has got a good constitution. And 
then, don’t you see, he seems to have lived virtuous. 
You never know how long virtuous folks can last I He 


Cousin Pons. 


181 


Is very ill, that ’s true ; but with all the care I give him 
I’ll pull him through. You be easy, and go about 
your work ; I ’ll keep him company, and see that he 
drinks his pints o’ barley-water.” 

“Pud for you, I moost tie of anchziety,” said 
Schmucke, pressing the hand of his good housekeeper 
in both his own, with a look full of confidence. 

Madame Cibot entered the sick man’s bedroom wip- 
ing her eyes. 

“What is the matter, Madame Cibot?” asked Pons. 

“Monsieur Schmucke has just stuck a knife in my 
heart ; he ’s crying over you as if you were dead ! ” she 
answered. “ Though you are pretty bad, you are not 
bad enough to be cried over ; but I ’ve got such a ten- 
der heart ! My goodness ! what a fool I am to love 
people like that, and to care more for you than 1 do for 
Cibot. After all, you ain’t nothing to me; we ain’t 
related, except through the first woman ; and yet, on 
my word of honor, here am I all harrowed up as soon 
as anything ’s the matter with you. I ’d cut my hand 
off — the left one, of course — here, this minute, if I 
could see you getting about again, eating your meals 
and filibustering with them dealers, like you used to. If 
I ’d had a child I think I should love it just as I love 
you, that I should ! Come, take your drink, my dar- 
hng, — here, drink it all down! Won’t you? do as I 
tell you, now ! Did n’t the doctor say, ‘ If Monsieur 
Pons don’t want to go to Pere-la-Chaise, he must drink 
every day as many pailsful o’ water as an Auvergnat 
sells ’ ? Come, come, you must drink ! ” 

“ But I do drink, my good Cibot 1 so much, so much, 
that my stomach is half a-float,” murmured Pons. 


182 


Cousin Pons, 


“ There, that’s right,” said his nurse, putting down 
the empty glass. “You will save 3"our life that wa^". 
Monsieur Poulain said he had a patient like you, who 
had n’t never no nursing ; his children abandoned him, 
and he died of this verj' disease just because he would n’t 
drink nothing ! So you must drink, don’t you see, mj’ 
lamb ! — the3’ onl}^ buried him two months ago. If 3’ou 
die, ^’ou ’ll carr^' off with 3"ou that good Schmucke — 
why, he ’s like a child, he is. Ah, don’t he love you, 
that dear lamb of a man ! No, there ain’t no woman 
ever loved a man like that ! He can’t eat nor drink, 
and he ’s grown so thin the last fifteen days that he 
ain’t no more nor a bag o’ bones like you. — Wh}", it 

makes me jealous ; for I love 3'Ou too : but I have n’t 
come to that pass yet — I hain’t lost m3" appetite, on the 
contrary ; and what with running up and down stairs my 
legs get so tired I just fling m3"self down at night like a 
lump o’ lead. I declare I neglect my poor Cibot so that 
Mademoiselle Remonencq has to get him his victuals, 
and he blows me up because they ’re bad. As for that, 
I tell him, we should all learn how to suffer for others, 
and that 3"ou are a deal too ill for me to leave 3"ou ; 3"Ou 
can’t do without a nurse, and I shan’t have no strange 
nurse here — I ! who have taken care of you and your 
affairs for nigh ten years ! I know what hired nurses 
are ! they eat enough for ten, and the3’ want their wine 
and their sugar and their warming-pans and their easy 
times ; and then, goodness, how they rob a sick man 
if he don’t put ’em in his will ! Get a nurse in here for 
a day, and to-morrow you ’ll miss a picture, or some 
curiosity or other — ” 

“ Oh, Madame Cibot I ” cried Pons, beside himself at 


Cousin Pons, 


183 


the idea, ‘ ‘ don’t leave me ! don’t let anybody touch 
anything ! ” 

“lam here,” she answered. “ As long as I have the 
strength, I’ll be here ; make yourself easy! Monsieur 
Poulain, who maybe had an eye to your treasures, did n’t 
he want me to get you a nurse though? But I just 
snuffed him out. ‘ There ain’t no one but me,' I said 
to him, ‘ that monsieur likes ; he knows my ways, and 
I know his.’ He held his tongue then, and I said, ‘ As 
for nurses, they are all thieves ! I hate them kind o’ 
women ; ’ and said he, ‘Yes, they are full o’ schemes : 
there was once an old gentleman,’ — observe now, it was 
the doctor said this, — ‘ and a Madame Sabatier, a 
woman thirty-six 3^ears old, who used to sell slippers 
at the Palais,’ — you know the row of shops they 
pulled down at the Palais?” 

Pons made a sign in the affirmative. 

“ Well, that woman never got on. Her man would 
drink ; and they saj" he died at last of spontaneous com- 
bustion. She was a handsome woman ; but if the 
truth must be told, even that did n’t profit her, though 
she had law^^ers among her friends. So when she came 
to the last crust she went out nursing women in childbed, 
and lived when at home in the rue Barre-du-Bec. One 
time she went to nurse an old gentleman who had (sav- 
ing your presence I) a disease o’ the kidne^^s, and they 
tapped him like an artesian well ; and that took such 
a deal o’ care, she had to sleep on a flock-bed in the 
gentleman’s room. That ’s easily believable. But you 
will tell me ‘ men don’t respect nothing ; they are all 
selfish.’ Well, now, you see, she was always there, 
talking to him and cheering him up. She told him 


184 


Cousin Pons, 


stories and got him to talk, just as we are now — ain’t 
we ? — chattering to each other ; and she found out that 
his nephews (for he had some nephews) were perfect 
monsters ; they had made him very unhappy ; and, to 
cut a long story short, he was just dying of the illness 
those nephews caused. Well, now, m3" dear monsieur, 
she saved his life, and then he married her ; and they ’ve 
got a splendid child. Madame Bordevin, that keeps 
the butcher’s shop corner of the rue Chariot, is her rela- 
tion, and she was the godmother. Eh, that was a piece 
of luck ! I ’m married, that ’s true ; but I hain’t got 
no children ; and I ma}" sa}" this, that it ’s Cibot’s fault. 
Enough ! But what should we ever have done, Cibot 
and I, with a family, when we have n’t got a sixpence 
laid by after thirt}’ 3"ears of honest dealings ? Think of 
that, my good monsieur! What comforts me is that 
I ’ve never taken a farthing of other folks’ propert}’, — 
never did I wrong any one ! Now, just suppose that 
in six weeks 3"ou are on 3"Our pins again, sauntering 
along the boulevard, and that 3"ou ’d put me, let ’s say, in 
3"Our will ; well, now, I should n’t have no peace till I ’d 
found up your heirs to give it back to ’em. I ’m afraid 
o’ money that I don’t earn by the sweat o’ m}^ brow. 
People might sa}" to me, ‘ Ma’ame Cibot, 3"Ou need n’t 
feel that way, for you ’ve fairl}" earned it. You took care 
o’ those gentlemen as if they were 3^our own babes ; you 
must have saved them a thousand francs a year.’ In m3" 
place, don’t 3"Ou see, monsieur, there ’s many cooks that 
has got ten thousand francs snugl3" laid b3". So it ain’t 
no wonder the neighbors say, ‘ It ’s only justice, Ma’ame 
Cibot, that 3"our good gentleman should leave you a 
little annuit3".’ Well, I tell ’em, ‘ No ; I ’m disinter- 


Cousin Pons. 


185 


ested.* I don’t know how women can do good out o’ 
selfishness. ’Tis n’t doing good at all, is it, monsieur? 
I don’t go to church, that ’s true : I have n’t got the 
time ; hut my conscience tells me what ’s right to 
do. There, there, now don’t twist round that way, my 
lamb, and don’t scratch yourself. Goodness ! how yel- 
low you are getting ! You are so yellow that you are 
almost brown ! How queer that a couple o’ weeks can 
make you look like a lemon ! Well, as I was saying, 
honesty is poor folks’ property ; they need to have some. 
Well, let’s suppose the worst does come to the worst 
with you : I shall be the first to tell you to leave all you 
are worth to Monsieur Schmucke. It ’s your duty to do 
so; for isn’t he all the family you’ve got? and don’t 
he love you, that man, like a dog loves his master? ” 

“ Ah, yes ! ” said Pons. “ I have had none but him 
to love me all my life.” 

“Oh, monsieur!” said Madame Cibot, “that ain’t 
kind. Don’t I love you?” 

“ I did n’t say that, my good Madame Cibot.” 

“ There you go, and take me for a servant, a common 
cook, who hain’t got no heart ! My goodness ! I may 
well wear myself out taking care o’ two old bachelors 
for eleven years, and thinking o’ nothing but their com- 
fort! Don’t I rummage over ten fruit-shops, and let 
people make jokes on me, just to get you the best Brie 
cheese? Don’t I scour the market for your fresh but- 
ter? Don’t I take care of all your property? Aave I 
broken, or cracked, or even chipped, a single thing in 
ten years ? Yes, that ’s it ! Take care of ’em just as 
a mother takes care of her children, and they’ll fling 
you a ‘ Good Madame Cibot,’ which tells yovi plainly 


186 


Cousin Pons. 


there ain’t a scrap o’ feeling for you in the heart of an 
old gentleman you ’ve cared for like the son of a king ; 
for the little King o’ Rome was n’t never cared for as 
you ’ve been ! Will you bet me they took care of him as 
I ’ve taken care o’ 3^ou ? why, he died in the flower of 
his age! Look here, monsieur, you ain’t just; you’re 
ungrateful. You treat me so just because I ’m a poor 
concierge. Good gracious ! You think, like the rest 
of ’em, that I ’m no better nor a dog — ” 

“But, my dear Madame Cibot — ” 

“ Come, come, you who know such a deal, tell me 
why we door-keepers should be treated like that ? Why 
ain’t we allowed feelings ? Why do people sneer at us 
in these days when they talk about equality? Ain’t I 
worth as much as any other woman, — I, who was 
once as pretty a woman as any in all Paris? They 
called me the ‘ beautiful oyster-girl,’ and I used to have 
seven or eight declarations of love a day. I could have 
them still, for that matter ! Look here, monsieur, don’t 
you know that scrap of a man, that old iron-dealer 
down below? Well, if I was a widow, — supposition, 
of course, — he’d marry me blindfold ; for he has n’t no 
eyes for any one but me, and he ’s forever saying : ‘ Oh, 
what fine arms you ’ve got, Madame Cibot ! I dreamed 
last night they were bread, and I was the butter being 
spread on ’em ! * Look, monsieur, there ’s a pair of arms 
for you I ” 

Here she turned up her sleeve and showed a really 
magnificent arm, as white and fresh as her hand was red 
and wrinkled, — a plump, round, dimpled arm, which 
came forth from its swathing of coarse merino as a blade 
is drawn from the scabbard, dazzling the eyes of the 


Cousin Pons. 


187 


worth}^ Pons, who did not venture to gaze at it too 
long. 

“TheyVe opened as many hearts as my knife has 
opened oysters,” she resumed. “ Well, the}- belong to 
Cibot, and I ’m doing very wrong to neglect that poor 
dear ; he ’d throw himself over a precipice only to please 
me. And you, monsieur, for whom I 'd do everything, 
— you don’t call me nothing, only your ‘ good Ma’ame 
Cibot’ — ” 

“ Do listen to me,” said the sick man. “ I can’t 
call you my mother, nor my wife — ” 

“ Never, never in my life will I attach myself to any 
one again — ” 

“Do let me speak!” cried Pons. “I mentioned 
Schmucke just now — ” 

“Monsieur Schmucke! Ah, there’s a heart in- 
deed ! ” she said. “ He loves me, he does, just because 
he ’s poor. It is riches that makes men unfeeling ; and 
you are rich. Well, get a nurse, if you want one, and 
see the life she ’ll lead you ! She ’ll torment you like a 
bumble-bee ! The doctor says you must n’t only drink, 
and she ’ll only let you eat ! She ’ll get you into your 
grave for the sake of robbing you ! You don’t deserve 
a Madame Cibot ! But go your ways. When Mon- 
sieur Poulain comes, tell him to send you a nurse — ” 

“What the devil! Just listen to me!” cried the 
angry patient, springing up. ‘ ‘ I was not speaking of 
a woman when I mentioned my friend Schmucke. I 
know well enough there are no hearts that truly love 
me but yours and Schmucke’s — ” 

“Don’t get so excited!” cried the Cibot, darting 
upon Pons, and laying him back in his bed by force. 


188 


Cousin Pons. 


“ How can I help loving you?” said poor Pons. 

“ Love me, do you? really and trul}"? There, there, 
forgive me, monsieur,” she said, wiping her eyes. 
“Yes, I know how you love me, — just as rich folks 
love a servant when they throw ’em an annuity of six 
hundred francs ; like they fling a bone to a dog in his 
kennel.” 

“Oh! Madame Cibot,” cried Pons, “what do you 
take me for? You don’t know me!” 

“Ah! 3"OU do love me better nor that?” she ex- 
claimed, meeting Pons’s eyes. “ You do love your poor 
old Cibot like a mother? Well, that ’s right ; I am your 
mother, and you are both of you my children ! Ah ! if 
I did but know the people that have made you unhappy, 
I ’d risk the police-court, and even a jail, to tear their 
eyes out. Such folks deserve to be put to death at the 
barriere Saint- Jacques, — and even that ’s too good a 
fate for such villains. You, so good and tender, — for 
you ’ve got a heart of gold ; you were born into the 
world to make some woman happy. Yes, any one 
can see that ; you were made for it ! From the very 
fii’st I’ve said, seeing how you lived with Monsieur 
Schmucke : ‘ Monsieur Pons has just wasted his life ; he 
was cut out for a good husband.’ Ah ! you were a man 
to love a woman ! ” 

“ Yes,” said Pons, “ and yet I never had one ! ” 

“ Really and truly?” she exclaimed, taking his hand 
with an insinuating air. “Don’t you know what it is 
to have a mistress who would go all lengths for you ? 
It ain’t possible ! If I were in your place I would n’t 
go to the other world without knowing the greatest 
happiness there is in this. Poor dear ! If I was what 


Cousin Pons. 


189 


I used to be, on my honor I ’d leave Cibot for you ! 
With a nose like yours, — for you Ve got a fine, proud 
one ! — how did it happen, my poor cherub ? Perhaps 
you ’ll tell me it is n’t all women who have an eye for a 
man, — and that ’s true enough ; they do marry so at 
hap-hazard, it is pitiable to see ’em ! I thought you had 
mistresses by the dozen, — dancers, actresses, duchesses ; 
for you ain’t never at home. I used to say to Cibot, 
when I ’d see you setting oflT, ‘ There ’s Monsieur Pons 
going gallivanting.’ Yes, honor bright ! that ’s just 
what I did say to him ; I was so sure you were fond 
o’ women. Why, Heaven created you for love. I saw 
that the very first day you dined here with Monsieur 
Schmucke. And did n’t he cry about it all the next day, 
and say to me, ‘ Matame Zipod, he tit tine here ! ’ He 
made me cry like an ox myself. Ah ! and was n’t he 
miserable when you began your rovings over again? 
Poor man ! I never saw no such desolation. You are 
quite right to make him your heir ; he ’s a whole family 
in himself, the blessed man ! No, don’t you forget him ; 
for if you do, God won’t never receive you into Para- 
dise. He don’t let no one in there who is n’t grateful 
enough to leave his friends an annuity.” 

Pons made vain attempts to reply. The Cibot talked 
as the wind blows. A way might be found to stop a 
steam-engine ; but the tongue of a Parisian concierge of 
the feminine gender is assuredly too much for the genius 
of any inventor. 

“ I know what you are going to say,” she resumed. 
“ Now, it don’t kill nobody to make his will when he’s 
sick, and if I was in your place I would n’t neglect that 
poor dear sheep now, for fear of accidents. He ’s the 


190 


Cousin Pons. 


blessed fool of the good Lord ; he knows nothing about 
nothing : and if I was you I would n’t leave him to the 
mercy of those harpies the lawyers, nor relations neither, 
who are the scum of the earth. There has n’t one been 
to see you all these twenty days that you ’ve been so ill. 
You don’t mean to give your property to such people, I 
hope? Do 3"ou know, I’m told these things 3 ou ’ve 
got here are worth having?” 

“Well, yes,” said Pons. 

“Remonencq, who knows 3"Ou are an amateur, and 
who sells such things second-hand, sa3"s he ’ll give 3"ou 
an annuitj" of thirt}’ thousand francs if 3’ou ’ll let him 
have 3’our pictures after 3’our death. Now, there ’s a 
chance ! In 3^our place I ’d take it. I thought at first 
he was making fun o’ me when he said it. You ought 
to tell Monsieur Schmucke the value of those things ; 
he ’s a man the}^ could cheat like a bab3'. He has n’t 
the slightest idea what those fine things are worth ; he 
knows so little about it, he ’d give ’em away for a song, 
— unless, for love of 3"Ou, he kept ’em all his hfe : that is, 
if he outlives 3"Ou ; for, more like, your death will kill 
him. But I shall be here, I shall; and I’ll protect 
him against everybod3’ — I and Cibot.” 

‘ ‘ Dear Madame Cibot ! ” said Pons, touched b3^ the 
simple good feeling of the lower classes which seemed to 
run through her detestable garrulit}-, “ what would be- 
come of me without you and Schmucke ? ” 

“Yes, 3^es, we are the only friends 3’ou ’ve got in this 
world; that’s true enough. But two kind hearts are 
worth aU the families put together. Don’t talk to me 
of families ! They are like what that old actor said of 
the tongue, — all that ’s best, and aU that ’s worst. 


Cousin Pons. 


191 


Where ’s 3^our family ? Have you got any relations ? I 
never saw none of ’em.” 

“It is they who have laid me on a sick bed ! ” cried 
Pons bitterly. 

“Ha! then you have got relations ? ” exclaimed the 
Cibot, starting up as if her chair had suddenly" turned 
to a red-hot ploughshare. “ The3" must be a nice set, 
your relations ! Here ’s twenty days — 3"es, this very 
morning, twenty days — that you ’ve been at death’s 
door, and there ain’t none of ’em has come to ask how 
3’ou are ! If that is n’t more than flesh and blood can 
stand I If I were you, I ’d rather leave my money to 
the Foundling Hospital than give ’em one penny.” 

“ Eh ! my dear Madame Cibot, I meant to leave all I 
possessed to my young cousin, the daughter of my first- 
cousin, Monsieur Camusot, — you know whom I mean? 
The gentleman who came here to see me nearly’ two 
months ago.” 

“ Ah, yes ! a little fat man who sent his servants to 
beg \^our pardon for his wife’s folly. The waiting-maid 
asked me a lot of questions about 3"Ou. Affected old 
thing ! I ’d half a mind to dust her velvet jacket for her 
with the handle o’ m3r broom. Who ever heard of a 
ladj^’s maid with a velvet jacket ? The world ’s turned 
upside down : what ’s the use of making revolutions ? 
Yes, yes, dine twice a day, if 3^ou can, jrou rich rascals ; 
but I say the laws will be useless, there won’t be noth- 
ing sacred, if Louis-Philippe don’t keep up a proper dis- 
tinction o’ classes ! I *d like to know how we are all 
going to be equal, if a waiting-maid is to have a velvet 
jacket, and I, Madame Cibot, with thirty years’ honesty 
to boast of, hain’t none ? A pretty state o’ things I 


192 


Cousin Pons, 


People ought to be seen for what they are. A lady's 
maid is a lady’s maid, just as I ’m a concierge. What 
do they wear epaulets with that big bullion for, in the 
army? Everybody in their own rank, I say ! I ’ll tell 
you what ’ll be the upshot of all this, — France will be 
ruined ! Under the Empire things went different, did n’t 
they, monsieur? That ’s just what I said to Cibot ; said 
I : ‘ Look here, my man, a house where they keep lady’s 
maids in velvet jackets is like folks without no bowels 
o’ compassion.’ ” 

“ Compassion ! ah, that ’s just it ! ” exclaimed Pons. 
And thereupon he recounted all his griefs and mortifica- 
tions to Madame Cibot, who poured forth invectives 
against his relations, and testified extreme tenderness 
for him at each pause in the melancholy tale, until at 
last she wept ! 

To understand the possibility of this sudden intimacy 
between the poor musician and Madame Cibot, it is 
enough to consider the situation of an old celibate, 
grievousl}^ ill for the first time in his life, stretched upon 
a bed of suffering, alone in the world, having to pass 
each day face to face with his own thoughts, and find- 
ing the time hang all the heavier under the indefina- 
ble sufferings with which liver diseases blacken even the 
brightest lives, because, deprived of his usual occupa- 
tions, he hungered for the streets of Paris and longed 
for those sights which they offer gratis. Such absolute 
and gloomy solitude, such pain preying on the moral 
even more than on the phj^sical being, — the starvation 
of life, as it were, — drives a celibate, and above all one 
whose nature is weak and whose heart is tender, to 
attach himself to whoever takes care of him ; just as a 


Cousin Pons, 


193 


drowning man clings to a plank. Pons therefore lis- 
tened eagerly to Madame Cibot’s cackle. Schmucke, 
Madame Cibot, and Monsieur Poulain were to him the 
whole of humanity, and the bedroom was his universe. 
If all sick persons concentrate their minds on the little 
round which their eyes can see, and if their egotism takes 
the form of subordinating themselves to the people and 
things about them, we may imagine what an old bach- 
elor, without domestic affections and never having 
known love, was capable of doing. During the last 
twenty days Pons had actually been brought to regret, 
now and then, that he had not married Madeleine Vivet. 
Therefore in those same twenty days Madame Cibot 
had already gained an immense hold over her patient’s 
mind, and he thought himself a lost man without her ; 
as to Schmucke, he was only a second self for the poor 
patient. Madame Cibot’s wonderful art consisted, un- 
known perhaps to herself, in giving utterance to Pons’s 
own thoughts. 

“Ah! here comes the doctor,” she said, as the bed 
rang. 

She left Pons all alone, knowing perfectl}’ well that 
the Jew and Remonencq had arrived. 

“ Don’t make any noise, gentlemen,” she said, “ lest 
he should suspect something ; for he ’s as ticklish as a 
toad about those treasures of his ! ” 

“ It will be enough just to walk through the room,” 
said the Jew, who had come provided with an oper» 
glass and a magnifier. 


13 


194 


Couiin Pon%, 


XVI 

DEPRAVITY DISCUSSED. 

The room which held the chief part of the Pons col- 
lection was one of those ancient salons such as French 
architects formerly designed for the nobility, twenty- 
five feet wide by thirty feet long, and thirteen feet in 
height. All the pictures which the old man possessed, 
sixt3"-eight in number, were hung on the four walls of 
this salon, which was panelled in wood and painted 
white and gold ; but the white which had 3’ellowed and 
the gold which had tarnished with time, gave harmoni- 
ous tones which did not conflict with the effect of the pic- 
tures. Fourteen statues, raised on short columns, were 
placed either in the angles of the room or between the 
pictures, on corbels made by Boule. Buffets of ebon3 % 
all carved, and of regal richness, were fastened round 
the walls above the wainscoting ; these buffets held the 
bric-k-brac. A row of sideboards in carved wood, placed 
down the centre of the room, were also covered with 
the choicest treasures of human toil, — ivories, bronzes, 
carvings, enamels, jewelr3", porcelains, etc. 

As soon as the Jew set foot in this sanctuary, he went 
straight to four masterpieces, which he knew to be the 
finest in the collection, four pictures painted b3’ masters 
whose works were lacking in his own. The3" were to him 
what the flora of distant countries are to naturalists, — 
desiderata which drive them to journey from the setting 


Cousin Pons. 


195 


to the rising sun, to the tropics, over deserts, over prai- 
ries, across savannas, and through the depths of virgin 
forests. The first picture was by Sebastian del Piombo, 
the second by Fra Bartolommeo della Porta, the third 
a landscape by Hobbema, and the last the portrait of 
a woman by Albrecht Diirer — four jewels ! Sebastian 
del Piombo is, in the art of painting, a brilliant central 
point in whom three schools meet, each in its highest 
excellence. Originally a Venetian painter, he went to 
Rome and took the style of Raphael under the direc- 
tion of Michael Angelo, who wished to pit him against 
Raphael, and contest, in the person of a lieutenant, 
the supremac}^ of that sovereign pontiff of Art. Thus 
this indolent genius brought together Venetian color, 
Florentine composition, and the Raphaelesque manner 
in the few pictures which he deigned to paint, the 
sketches for which were made, it is said, by Michael 
Angelo. The perfection attained by this painter, thus 
armed with triple power, will be seen by any one who 
studies the portrait of Baccio Bandinelli in the Musee 
of Paris, — a picture which may challenge comparison with 
Titian’s Man of the Glove, or the portzttit of the Old Man 
in which Raphael combined his own perfection with that 
of Correggio, or the picture of Charles VIII. by Lio- 
nardo da Vinci, without detriment to its fame. These 
four pearls are of the same water, the same quality of 
light, the same fulness, the same brilliancy, the same cal- 
ibre. Human art can go no farther. It is superior to 
Nature, which can only make the original live its day. 
Pons possessed another work of this great genius, this 
immortal but incurably indolent palette, — a Knight of 
Malta in prayer, painted on slate, of a freshness, a finish, 


196 


Cousin Pons, 


and a depth greater even than those qualities in the 
portrait of Baccio Bandinelli. The Holy Family of Fra 
Bartolommeo would readily have been taken for a Raph- 
ael by many connoisseurs ; the Hobbema would have 
brought sixty thousand francs at auction ; and as to the 
Albrecht Diirer, this portrait of a woman was doubtless 
a pendant to the famous Holzschuer of Nuremberg, for 
which the kings of Bavaria, Holland, and Prussia have 
on several occasions vainly offered two hundred thou- 
sand francs. Was she the wife, or the daughter, of the 
Chevalier Holzschuer, the friend of Albrecht Diirer? 
That the pictures were once a pair may be considered 
undeniable ; for the woman in the Pons collection is in 
an attitude which requires a pendant, and the heraldic 
insignia are painted in the same position in both pic- 
tures. Moreover, the cetatis suae XL I. is in perfect 
accordance with the age given on the portrait so relig- 
iously guarded by the Holzschuer family in Nuremberg, 
which has been lately engraved. 

The tears stood in 6lie Magus’s eyes as he looked, 
one after the other, at these masterpieces. 

“ I will give you two thousand francs’ commission for 
each of those pictures if you will help me to get them 
for forty thousand francs,” he whispered in Madame 
Cibot’s ear, who stood open-mouthed at a fortune thus 
tumbling from heaven at her feet. 

The admiration, or, to speak more truly, the ecstasy, 
of the Jew had produced such disorder in his mind and 
in his miserly habits that for once, as we see, his Jewish 
soul was overthrown. 

“What about me?” said Remonencq, who knew 
nothing of pictures. 


Cousin Pons, 


19T 


“ Ever 3 ^thiDg here is of equal value,” whispered 
Magus slyly; “take any ten of the pictures on the 
same terms, and your fortune is made.” 

The robbers looked at each other, all three in the 
grasp of the most voluptuous of enjoyments, — the grati- 
fication of success in the pursuit of fortune ; at that 
moment the sick man’s voice rang out and vibrated like 
the sound of a bell. 

“ Who is there? ” cried Pons. 

“ Monsieur, lie down again ! ” exclaimed the Cibot, 
springing towards Pons and forcing him back into his 
bed. ‘ ‘ Goodness ! do you want to kill yourself ? Why, 
it was n’t the doctor, it is that good Remonencq, who 
is so uneasy about you that he came to ask how you 
are. You are so beloved, all the house is astir about 
you. What are you afraid of ? ” 

“But it seems to me that there are several persons 
there,” said the sick man. 

“Several? well done ! Are you dreaming ? You’ll 
end by going crazy, take my word for it. There ! look 
here ! ” 

So saying, she opened the door quickty, and made 
a sign to Magus to go away, and to Remonencq to come 
forward. 

“Well, my good monsieur,” said the Auvergnat, for 
whose instruction the woman had spoken, “ I came 
to hear how you are ; the whole house is in a fright 
about you. People don’t like a death in the house ! 
Besides, Papa Monistrol, whom you know very well, 
sent me to say that if you wanted any money, he was 
at your service.” 

“ He sent you here to give a look at my bibelots,’' 


198 


Cousin Pons. 


said the old collector, with a bitterness that was full 
of suspicion. 

In diseases of the liver the victims nearly always de- 
velop sudden and special antipathies ; they concentrate 
their ill-humor on some object or on some person, it 
does not matter what or who. Pons, who already im- 
agined that some one was after his treasure, was pos- 
sessed with the fixed idea of protecting it ; and he was 
constantly sending Schmucke back and forth to see if 
any one had slipped into his sanctuary. 

“ Your collection is fine enough to tempt the chi- 
neurs” said Remonencq astutely. “ I don’t understand 
high-class curiosities ; but monsieur is thought to be 
such a great connoisseur that, though I am not up in 
such things, I’d buy some of them from monsieur with 
my eyes shut. Now, if monsieur wanted any money, — 
nothing costs like these cursed illnesses. I’ve known 
my sister to spend thirty sous in ten days for medicines 
when her blood is out of order ; though she ’d have got 
well just as soon without them. Doctors are cheats, 
who profit by our weakness to — ” 

“ Thank 3^ou, monsieur, I need nothing; good-daj^” 
said Pons, looking uneasily at the Auvergnat. 

“I’ll show him the way out,” said Madame Cibot in 
a low voice to her patient, “for fear he should touch 
an3i;hing.” 

“ Yes, yes,” answered Pons, thanking her with a 
look. 

Madame Cibot shut the door of the bedroom, — an ac- 
tion which at once roused the sick man’s suspicion. 
She found Magus standing motionless in front of the 
four pictures. This immobilit3^, this rapt admiration, 


Cousin Pons, 


199 


can be understood only b}^ those whose souis are open 
to the ideal, to the ineffable emotion caused by the per- 
fection of a work of art. Such people remain rooted 
on their feet for hours before the Jocunda of Lionardo 
da Vinci, the Mistress of Titian, the Holy Family of 
Andrea del Sarto, the Children of Dominichino gar- 
landed with flowers, the little cameo of Raphael or his 
portrait of the Old Man, — the greatest of all the great 
masterpieces of art. 

“ Get away without making any noise,’’ said the 
Cibot. 

The Jew went slowly out, walking backwards as he 
went, gazing at the pictures as a lover looks at a mis- 
tress to whom he is forced to bid adieu. When he 
reached the landing, Madame Cibot, to whom this 
earnest contemplation had supplied a few ideas, tapped 
Magus on his skinny arm. 

“You must give me four thousand francs for each 
picture ; if not, no bargain,” she said. 

“ I am so poor ! ” said Magus. “ If I want these pic- 
tures, it is for love, pure love of art, my good lady.” 

“ You’re such a dry stick, my old fellow,” said the 
woman, “ that I don’t believe in no such love. But if 
you don’t promise me sixteen thousand francs here to- 
day, in presence of Remonencq, to-morrow I ’ll make 
it twenty thousand.” 

“ I promise the sixteen,” answered the Jew, alarmed 
at her avidity. 

“ What can he swear by? he’s only a Jew,” said the 
Cibot to Remonencq. 

“You can trust him,” said the Auvergnat; “he’s 
as honest a man as I am.” 


200 


Cousin Pons, 


“ Hey ! and you? ” she demanded. “ If I give you 
some o’ the pictures to sell, what will you pay me ? ” 

“ Half the profits,” said Remonencq promptly. 

“ I ’d rather have a sum down ; I ’m not in business,” 
said Madame Cibot. 

“ You understand it pretty well, though ! ” said Elie 
Magus, smiling ; “ you would make a fine dealer.” 

“ I ’ve offered to go into partnership with her, body 
and estate,” declared Remonencq, taking Madame 
Cibot’s plump arm and rapping it with the force of a ham- 
mer. ‘ ‘ I don’t ask an}" other capital than her beauty ! 
You are very wrong to hold on to your Turk of a Cibot 
and his shears. Is it a little tailor who can make a 
rich woman of a beauty like you? Ah, what a figure 
you ’d cut in my shop on the boulevard, in the middle 
of all the curiosities, chattering to the customers and 
twisting ’em round your finger ! Come, you give up that 
lodge of yours as soon as you ’ve made your haul here, 
and see how well we ’ll get on together.” 

‘ ‘ Made my haul here ! ” exclaimed Madame Cibot. 
“ I ain’t capable of taking so much as the value of a 
pin! Do you hear me, Remonencq? I’m known in 
all the quarter for an honest woman, I am ! ” 

Her eyes flamed. 

“ There, there, don’t get angry ! ” said &ie Magus ; 
“ the man seems to love you too well to mean any 
oflTence.” 

‘ ‘ Hey ! how she would draw the customers ! ” cried 
the Auvergnat. 

“Now, be fair, both of you,” resumed Madame 
Cibot, pacified, “and consider for yourselves how I’m 
placed. Here’s ten years that I’ve been wearing 


Cousin Pons. 


201 


myself out, body and soul, for those two old bachelors, 
and they hain’t never given me a single thing except 
words. Remonencq can tell you I feed ’em at a loss ; 
I lose twenty to thirty sous a day on ’em. All my sav- 
ings have gone that way. I swear it by the soul of my 
mother, — the only author of my being that I ’ve ever 
known, — it ’s as true as I ’m born, and as the daylight ’s 
above us : and may my coffee poison me if I lie one 
penny’s worth. Well, then, here ’s one on ’em going to 
die, that ’s sure ; and it ’s the richest of the pair whom 
I ’ve treated like they were my own children. Now would 
you believe, my dear monsieur, that I ’ve been telling 
him for twenty days he ’s at death’s door (for Monsieur 
Poulain has given him over) ; and yet this skinflint 
won’t say a word about putting me in his will any more 
than if he did n’t know me. My word of honor ! no- 
body gets their rights unless they take ’em. Talk to 
me of trusting to the heirs, indeed ! That ’s likely ! 
Such talk stinks in my nostrils. People are all scum ! ” 

‘‘ That’s true,” said ^lie Magus artfully ; “ and it is 
such as we,” he added, looking at Remonencq, “ who 
are really the honest men.” 

“Oh! no offence; I wasn’t speaking of you,” said 
Madame Cibot. ‘‘ Present company, as the old actor 
said, is always accepted. I ’ll swear to you those two 
old bachelors owe me nearly three thousand francs ; the 
little I had saved up is all gone for their medicines and 
expenses. And suppose they did n’t give me nothing for 
all I ’ve advanced ! I ’m such a fool, with my honesty, 
that I don’t like to speak to ’em about it. Now, you 
know what business is, my good monsieur : would you 
advise me to go to a lawyer ? ” 


202 


Cousin Pons. 


“ A lawyer ! ” cried Remonencq ; “ 3’ou know a deal 
more than all the lawj^ers put together ! ” 

The sound of a heavy body falling on the floor of the 
dining-room echoed through the wide vault of the 
staircase. 

“ Good God ! ” cried Madame Cibot, “ what’s the 
matter? I do believe my old gentleman has tumbled 
headlong ! — ” 

She gave a push to her accomplices, who rushed 
downstairs with agilit}", and then flew into the dining- 
room, where she saw Pons, in his nightshirt, Ijdng at full 
length upon the floor in a dead faint. She seized the 
old man, lifted him like a feather, and carried him to 
his bed. When she had laid him back in it, she put 
a burnt goose-quill to his nose, wet his temples with 
eau-de-cologne, and brought him to his senses. 

“Without your slippers, in your shirt-tails! It’s 
enough to kill you ! Why do you suspect me ? If 
that’s how it’s to be, good-by to you! After serving 
you ten years, and paying out my own money for 3^ou, 
and spending all my savings so as not to worry that poor 
Monsieur Schmucke, who goes crying down the stairs 
like a baby, — this is to be m3' reward, is it? You spy 
upon me! Well, God has punished you, and that’s 
right ! And here if I have n’t given myself a strain 
lifting you in my arms ! And perhaps I ’m injured for 
the rest of m3' life ! Goodness ! and there ’s the door 
that I left open ! ” 

“ Whom were you talking to? ” 

“What an idea!” cried the Cibot “Am I your 
slave ? I have n’t got to render no account to you o’ my 
doings. Don’t you know, if you behave so to me, I ’ll 


Cousin Pons. 


203 


put my foot down and leave you right there? Then 
5’^ou can hire a nurse.” 

Pons, terrified at this threat, unconsciously revealed 
to Madame Cibot the lengths to which she could go with 
this sword of Damocles. 

“ It is because I am so ill,” he said piteously. 

“Oh! I dare say!” she answered roughly, leaving 
Pons quite bewildered, a prey to remorse, admiring the 
clamorous devotion of his nurse, and so full of self- 
reproach that he did not feel the cruel hurt of his fall 
upon the flagging of the dining-room, by which he had 
just aggravated the effects of his disease. Madame 
Cibot saw Schmucke coming up the stairway. 

“Come, monsieur, come! I’ve bad news for j^ou. 
Monsieur Pons is out of his head. Fancy ! he got up 
without anything on, and followed me, and he fell down 
right there at full length. If you ask him why he did 
it, he don’t know. He ’s wrong in his head. I did 
nothing to provoke such violence, except that I was 
talking to him about his early loves. But there ! you 
can’t trust no man ; they are all old rips — ” 

Schmucke listened to Madame Cibot as if she were 
talking Hebrew. 

“ I ’ve given mj^self such a wi’ench that I ’ve got a hurt 
that wiU last me all my days ! ” she added, seeming 
to suffer excruciating pain, and suddenly resolving to 
make the most of an idea that came from a slight fatigue 
she felt in her muscles. “ I am a fool ! When I saw 
him there on the ground, I took him up in my arms and 
carried him to his bed like a child, that I did ! And now 
I just feel such a strain ! Ah, I ’m ill ! I must go 
down. Take care of the patient. I must send Cibot for 


204 


Cousin Pons. 


Monsieur Poulain, and see what ’s the matter with me. 
I ’d rather die than be a crippled creature ! 

She grasped the balusters and dragged herself down 
the staircase, making many contortions and uttering such 
plaintive moans that the other lodgers, much alarmed, 
came out from their appartements on the different land- 
ings. Schmucke supported the sufferer, shedding tears 
and explaining her great devotion. All the house, and 
soon all the neighborhood, heard of Madame Cibot’s 
noble deed ; she had done herself, they said, a mortal 
injury by lifting one of the Nut-crackers in her arms. 
Schmucke, as soon as he could get back to Pons, told 
him about the sad condition of their factotum, and each 
gazed at the other, saying, “What will become of us 
without her?” Schmucke, observing the change in 
Pons’s appearance produced by his strange freak, dared 
not scold him. 

“ Gonvound dat prig-a-prag ! It hat pedder pe purned 
dan gill my frent ! ” he cried, after Pons had told him 
the cause of the accident. “It meks you tout dat 
goot Matame Zipod, who has her zafings lentet to us ! 
Dat ees not raight — but it ees eelness, I know dat ! ” 

“Ah! what an illness! I am changed; I feel it,” 
said Pons. “I don’t wish to make you unhappy, my 
good Schmucke.” 

“ Sgold me,” said Schmucke, “pud leaf Matame 
Zipod aloan.” 

Doctor Poulain cured Madame Cibot in a few days of 
the internal injury she pretended to have suffered ; and 
his reputation became really illustrious throughout the 
Marais for the skill manifested in this cure, which was 
called miraculous. To Pons, the doctor attributed his 


Cousin Pons. 


205 


patient’s recovery to her excellent constitution ; and she 
resumed her attendance upon the two old gentlemen on 
the seventh day, to their great satisfaction. This event 
increased the power and tyranny of Madame Cibot a 
hundred-fold over the household arrangements of the 
two Nut-crackers, who during this week had been 
forced to run into debt, the debts being paid by her. 
She profited by the circumstance to obtain from 
Schmucke (and with what ease !) a receipt for the two 
thousand francs which she declared she had lent to the 
two friends. 

“ Ah ! what a doctor Monsieur Poulain is,” she said 
to Pons. “He’ll save your life, my dear monsieur, 
for he ’s dragged me out o’ my coffin. M}^ poor Cibot 
thought I was dead! Well, now. Monsieur Poulain 
must have told you I did n’t think of nothing but you 
when I was lying there on my bed. ‘ My God,’ I used 
to say, ‘ take me ; but let my dear Monsieur Pons live !’ ” 

“Poor dear Madame Cibot, you came near having 
a fatal hurt through me ! ” 

“ Ah ! if it had n’t been for Monsieur Poulain, I should 
have been put to bed with a shovel by this time. Well, 
as that old actor used to say, ‘ When you ’re at the bot- 
tom of the grave, you can turn a summerset.’ Philos- 
ophy is a good thing. How have you got along without 
me?” 

“ Schmucke nursed me,” said the patient ; “ but our 
purse and our pupils have fared badly. I am sure I 
don’t know how Schmucke has managed.” 

“ Pe galm, Bons!” cried Schmucke; “our goot 
Matame Zipod ees our panker.” 

“ Don’t speak of that, my dear lamb ; you ’re both of 


206 


Cousin Pons. 


you my children,” returned the Cibot. “ My savings 
are safe with you. I ’m not afraid ; you ’re as sound as 
the Bank of France. As long as Cibot and I have a 
bit of bread, you shall have half of it — ’taint worth 
talking about.” 

“ Boor Matame Zipod ! ” said Schmucke, as he went 
away. 

Pons said nothing. 

“ Would you beheve it, my precious,” said Madame 
Cibot, noticing that her patient was uneasy, “ when death 
was hanging over me — for, I tell you, it stared me 
in the face — the thing that worried me most was the 
thought of 3"ou poor dears left alone to your own de- 
vices, and mj" poor Cibot without a farthing. M}^ sav- 
ings are such a trifle that they wouldn’t be worth 
speaking of, if it was n’t for Cibot, in case of my death. 
Poor angel ! that man has taken care of me as if I was 
a queen ; he moaned over me like a calf, he did. But 
I felt sure o’ 5^ou ; I give you my word o’ that. I said 
to myself : ‘ Don’t you be afraid, Ma’ame Cibot ; j’our 
gentlemen won’t never leave j’ou to starve.’ ” 

Pons made no answer to this attack ad testame 7 itum^ 
though Madame Cibot paused for a reply. 

“ I will tell Schmucke to take care of 3’ou,” he said 
at length. 

“ Ah ! ” cried the woman, “ anything j^ou do will be 
nght ; I can trust you and 3’our heart. Don’t say no 
more ; it makes me ashamed, my dear, good cherub. 
Don’t think o’ nothing but getting well. You ’ll live 
longer nor the rest of us.” 

Profound anxiety filled Madame Cibot’s heart, and 
she resolved to get some explanation from Pons as to 


CouBin Pons, 


207 


the amount of the legacy he intended to leave her. As 
a preliminary step, she went to call on Doctor Poulain 
in his own home that evening, after she had served 
Schmucke’s dinner, the old German being now in 
the habit of taking his meals by the bedside of his 
friend. 


208 


Cousin Pons. 


XVII. 

THE HISTORY OF ALL FIRST APPEARANCES IN PARIS. 

Doctor Poulain lived in the rue d’Orl^ans. He oc- 
cupied a small ground-floor appartement consisting of 
an antechamber, a salon, and two bedrooms. An oflSce 
which adjoined the antechamber and communicated with 
the doctor’s bedroom had been converted into a stud3^ 
A kitchen, one servant’s bedroom, and a small cellar 
belonging to this suite of rooms were in the wing of 
the house, a vast structure, erected in the days of 
the Empire on the site of a former mansion, the 
garden of which still remained. This garden was 
divided among the three appartements on the ground- 
floor. 

The suite of rooms belonging to the doctor had seen 
no change for forty j^ears. The paint, papering, and 
decorations were all of the Empire. More than a gen- 
eration of dirt and smoke had defaced the mirrors and 
friezes, the patterns of the wall-papers, the ceilings, 
and the paint on the woodwork. This little abode, in 
the depths of the Marais, cost a thousand francs a year. 
Madame Poulain, the doctor’s mother, a woman sixty- 
flve 3"ears of age, was spending her last ^^ears in the 
second bedroom. Her husband had been a breeches- 
maker, and she worked at the trade, on gaiters, leath- 
ern breeches, braces, and waistbands ; in fact, on all the 


Cousin Pons, 


209 


various parts of that garment, now fallen into disuse. 
She never went out into the street, being fully occupied 
by the care of the doctor’s housekeeping and the manage- 
ment of his one servant, and took the air only in the gar- 
den, which was entered by a glass door leading from the 
salon. On the death of her husband — which happened 
twenty years before the time of which we are writing — 
she had sold the business to her forewoman, who agreed 
to let her keep enough work to enable her to earn thirty 
sous a day. She had sacrificed everything to the educa- 
tion of her only son, in the efiTort to give him a vocation 
superior to that of his father. Proud of her ^sculapius, 
and confident of his success, she still continued to 
sacrifice herself to his interests, — happy in taking 
care of him, in economizing for his benefit, thinking 
only of his comfort, and loving him with an intelligent 
good sense not shown hy all mothers. Thus Madame 
Poulain, who remembered very well that she had once 
been a mere work-woman, never injured her son by 
showing her defects, or exposing herself to ridicule, — 
for the good woman used her s’s very much as Madame 
Cibot used her negatives. She always hid herself in her 
bedroom whenever, by chance, some important patient 
came to consult the doctor, or when his fellow-collegians 
and comrades in the hospital made their appearance. The 
doctor, therefore, was never obliged to blush for his 
mother, — whom, indeed, he reverenced, and whose de- 
fects of education were well compensated by this sublime 
species of tenderness. The sale of her business had 
yielded about twenty thousand francs, which she had put 
into the Grand-Livre in 1820 ; and the eleven hundred 
francs dividend therefrom represented the whole of her 
14 


210 


Cousin Pons. 


means. So for several years the neighbors saw the 
famil}^ linen stretched on lines in the doctor’s third of 
the garden. Madame Poulain and her one servant 
washed at home as a matter of econom}’. This small 
domestic detail had done the doctor much harm among 
those who did not choose to recognize his talent because 
they saw his poverty. The eleven hundred francs paid 
the rent, and in earlier years the leather-stitching of 
Madame Poulain — a fat, comfortable little old woman 
— had sufficed for all the wants of their humble house- 
hold. After twelve years’ persistence along this stony 
path, the doctor had come to earn about three thousand 
francs a year ; so that Madame Poulain now had an in- 
come of something like five thousand francs to lay out. 
To any one who knows Paris, this will seem just enough 
for the strict necessaries of life. 

The salon where the patients were accustomed to wait 
was meanly furnished with the vulgar and well-known 
mahogan}^ sofa covered with yellow Utrecht velvet 
embossed with a pattern of fiowers, four armchairs, 
six common chairs, a pier-table, and a tea-table, — 
which had all been the property of the late breeches- 
maker, and his particular choice. The clock, kept 
under a glass-case between two Egyptian candelabra, 
was in the shape of a lyre. It was a question how the 
curtains which hung at the windows could possibly have 
been preserved so long ; for they were made of 3"ellow 
calico, with a pattern of red geometrical rosettes from 
the manufactory^ at Jouy. (Oberkampf, the Bavarian 
manufacturer who first established calico print-works 
at Jouy-en-Josas, near Versailles, received the thanks 
of the Emperor in 1809 for these atrocious products of 


Cousin Pons. 


211 


his cotton industry.) The doctor’s study was furnished 
in the same style, the paternal bed-chamber having sup- 
plied the wherewithal. The aspect of the room was 
stiff, dismal, and poverty-stricken. What patient could 
possibly believe in the skill of a doctor without re- 
nown who had barely any furniture? — in these days, 
too, when the art of advertising is all powerful, and 
when they gild the lamps on the Place de la Concorde 
to console the poor man and coax him to believe himself 
a rich citizen ! 

The antechamber served as a dining-room. The ser- 
vant sat there at her sewing when not employed in the 
kitchen or in company with the doctor’s mother. A 
glance sufficed to show the decent poverty which per- 
vaded this melancholy room (which was left empty dur- 
ing the greater part of the day), as the eye rested on the 
little red muslin curtain covering the solitary window 
looking out upon the court. The cupboards held scraps 
of sodden pates, chipped plates, endless corks, the nap- 
kins of a week’s use, — in short, all the necessary igno- 
minies of the humbler Parisian households, whose next 
stage inevitably lands them in the pouch of a rag-picker. 
Thus it happened that in these days, when the new five- 
franc piece lurks in all minds and rolls on all tongues, 
the doctor, though thirty years of age and possessed of 
a mother without relations, was still a bachelor. In the 
course of ten years he had never met with the smallest 
pretext for a love-afiair in the families to which his pro- 
fession gave him access ; for the healing art took him 
among those whose sphere in life very much resembled 
his own, — that is to say, minor clerks and the smaller 
dealers and manufacturers. His richest clients were 


212 


Cousin Pons. 


butchers, bakers, and the retail shopkeepers of the 
neighborhood, — people who commonly attributed their 
cure to Nature, and paid the doctor only forty sous for 
his visit, for the reason that he came on foot. In the 
medical profession a cabriolet is of more consequence 
than skill. 

A life of commonplace events, without opportunities, 
ends by reacting upon even the most venturous mind. 
A man conforms to his fate, and accepts the mediocrity 
of his life. Doctor Poulain, after ten years’ practice, 
was still at the toil of Sisyphus, without the sense of 
despair which made its first years so bitter. Neverthe- 
less he cherished a dream ; for every soul in Paris has 
his own visions : Remonencq had his ; so had Ma- 
dame Cibot. Doctor Poulain hoped to be called to some 
rich and influential invalid, and to obtain by means of 
this patient — whom he should infalliblj^ cure — an ap- 
pointment as surgeon-in-chief to some hospital, or the 
position of doctor in a prison, or to the theatres of the 
boulevard, or in some government office. He had 
already obtained by such means the place of phj’sician 
to the mairie. Called in by Madame Cibot, he had 
attended and cured Monsieur Pillerault, the owner of 
the house to which she and her husband were door- 
keepers. Monsieur Pillerault, great-uncle of Madame 
la comtesse Popinot, who was wife of a minister, took 
an interest in the young man whose secret poverty he 
fathomed while making a visit of acknowledgment at 
the doctor’s home ; and he obtained from his great- 
nephew the minister, who deeply respected him, the sit- 
uation at the mayor’s office which Poulain had retained 
for five years, the meagre emoluments of which had come 


Comin Pons, 


213 


just in time to keep him from carrying out a rash deci- 
sion to emigrate. To leave France is to a Frenchman 
like going to his own funeral. Doctor Poulain hastened 
to thank the Comte Popinot ; but the doctor in charge 
of the department over which the minister presided, 
proved to be the illustrious Bianchon, and Poulain rec- 
ognized that he could never hope for that place himself. 
Thus the poor man, after flattering himself for a brief 
moment that he had won the protection of an influential 
statesman, one of the twelve or fifteen cards which an 
astute hand shuffles on the green baize of the council- 
board, was cast floundering back into the Marais, 
where he struggled among the poor and the lesser 
bourgeoisie, and fulfilled the duty of recording deaths 
at a salary of twelve hundred francs a year. 

Doctor Poulain, once a somewhat distinguished med- 
ical student, and now a prudent practitioner, did not 
lack experience. His deaths caused no scandal, and 
he was able to study all diseases in animd vili. Im- 
agine, therefore, the gall on which he fed ! The expres- 
sion of his face, already strained and melancholy, was 
sometimes frightful. Put the gleaming eyes of a Tar- 
tufe and the sharpness of an Alceste into a bit of yellow 
parchment, and then picture to yourself the deportment, 
the attitudes, the glance of a man who knew himself 
to be just as skilful a doctor as the celebrated Horace 
Bianchon, and yet was held down in obscurity by an 
iron hand ! Doctor Poulain could not help comparing his 
poor earnings, of ten francs on his fortunate days, with 
those of Bianchon, which amounted daily to five or six 
hundred. Does not this reveal to us all the hatreds of 
democracy ? Moreover, this man of ambition, thus held 


214 


Cousin Pons. 


down, had no cause for self-reproach. He had done 
his best, and wooed fortune by the invention of certain 
purgative pills like those of Morrison. He intrusted 
the enterprise to a comrade at the hospital, a student 
who had subsequently become a druggist. But the said 
druggist, having fallen in love with a dancer at the 
Op4ra Comique, ended in bankruptcy ; and the patent 
for the purgative pills being unfortunately taken out in 
his name, this discovery enriched his successor only. 
The bankrupt departed for Mexico, the land of gold, 
carrying with him a thousand francs of poor Poulain’s 
savings, who, by way of consolation, was treated by 
the dancer as a usurer when he attempted to recover 
his money. Since his fortunate attendance on Pillerault, 
not a single rich patient had sent for him. Poulain 
scoured the Marais on foot like a lean cat, and on a 
round of some twenty visits earned from two sous to 
forty. The remunerative client was to him the phan- 
tasmal bird known in all sublunary realms under the 
name of the phcenix, or white crow. 

A young lawyer without cases, a 3'oung doctor with- 
out patients, are the two extreme expressions of decent 
Despair, — that chill, silent Despair which is peculiar to 
the city of Paris ; Despair clothed in black trousers 
whose whitening seams recall the zinc of a gutter, 
in a waistcoat of too-shiny satin, in a hat sacredly 
cared for, old gloves, and a cotton shirt. It is a poem 
of sadness, — sombre as the Secrets of the Conciergerie. 
Other forms of poverty — those of the poet, the artist, 
the actor, the musician — are cheered by a gayety 
springing natural from the arts and from the careless 
ease of the Bohemia into which we launch and which 


CouBin Pons, 


216 


leads to the Thebaides of genius. But to the two black 
coats which go a-foot, worn b}" the two professions for 
whom all things are like an open wound, and to whose 
sight humanity shows only its shameful aspect, the 
dreary dead levels of their opening career give to such 
men a sinister and scheming expression, through which 
flashes of accumulated hatred and ambition dart forth, 
like the flrst flames of a smothered fire. When two 
college friends meet, after twenty years’ separation, 
the rich man avoids his poorer comrade and does not 
recognize him ; he is terrified by the gulf which fate has 
opened between them. The one has traversed life in the 
chariot of fortune, or on the golden clouds of success ; 
the other has plodded along the subterranean wa^’s of 
Parisian sewers, and carries their stigmata upon him. 
How many old comrades avoided the doctor at the mere 
sight of his coat and waistcoat ! 

It is now easy to see why Doctor Poulain consented 
to play his part in the comedy of Madame Cibot’s 
illness. His ambitions and all his eager desires can be 
imagined. Not finding the slightest sign of injury in 
any of her organs, observing the regularity of her pulse, 
the perfect ease of all her movements, and hearing her 
distressing cries, he understood she had some good 
reason for pretending to be at death’s door. As the 
rapid cure of this serious illness was likely to make him 
talked of in the arrondissement, he exaggerated Ma- 
dame Cibot’s pretended rupture, and talked of taking it 
in time and reducing it. He exhibited certain sham 
remedies, and put his patient through a fictitious opera- 
tion which was crowned with success. He hunted up, 
in the arsenal of Desplein’s extraordinary cures, a pecn 


216 


Cousin Pons. 


liar case and applied it to Madame Cibot, modestly at- 
tributing the cure to the great surgeon, whose imitator 
he claimed to be. Such are the tricks of men who are 
endeavoring to rise in Paris ; thej^ turn even the genius 
of others into ladders for themselves. But as all things 
wear out, even the rungs of a ladder, the recruits in each 
profession are occasionally at a loss for the wood with 
which to make their foothold. Sometimes the Parisian 
turns refractory. Weary of building pedestals, he sulks 
like a spoiled child, and discards his idols ; or, to speak 
more accurately, men of talent are sometimes lacking 
to his adoration : the vein which gives the ore of genius 
has its lacunae. The Parisian rebels at this, and refuses 
to gild or worship the inferior gods. 

Madame Cibot, entering with her accustomed brusque- 
ness, surprised the doctor at table with his old mother, 
eating a salad of lamb’s-lettuce, — the cheapest of all 
the salads, — with nothing for dessert but a thin wedge 
of Brie cheese, a dish sparsely filled with dried fruits 
called “the four mendicants,” — figs, nuts, almonds, 
and raisins in which the stalks predominated, — and a 
plate of miserable shrunken apples. 

“Mother, you can stay,” said the doctor, retaining 
Madame Poulain by the arm ; “ it is Madame Cibot, of 
whom I spoke to you.” 

“ My respects to you, madame ; the same to you, 
monsieur,” said Madame Cibot, taking the chair the 
doctor gave her. ‘ ‘ Ah ! your mother is very fortu- 
nate to have a son so full o* talent. He ’s my savior, 
madame ; he has dragged me from the tomb ! ” 

The widow Poulain thought Madame Cibot charming 
as she listened to these praises of her son. 


Cousin Pons. 


217 


“ I ’ve come to tell you, my dear Monsieui Poulain, 
that our dear Monsieur Pons is very ill, and I want to 
speak to 3'ou about him.” 

“ Let us go into the salon,” said Doctor Poulain, call- 
ing Madame Cibot’s attention to the servant with a 
significant sign. 

Once in the salon, the Cibot explained at much length 
her situation as to the Nut- crackers. She related the 
story of her loan with many embellishments, and re- 
counted the immense services she had rendered Mon- 
sieur Schmucke and Monsieur Pons for more than ten 
years. According to her account, the two old men 
would never have survived without her maternal care. 
She posed as an angel, and told so many lies, well 
watered with tears, that she ended by touching the 
heart of old Madame Poulain. 

“ You understand, my dear monsieur,” the Cibot said 
as she finished, “ I really must know what Monsieur Pons 
intends to do for me in case of his death. That ’s an 
event I don’t want nohow ; for the care o’ them innocent 
babes, you see, ma’am, is my very life, and if I lose one 
I shall always take care o’ the other. Nature cut me out 
for a model o’ maternity. I don’t know what would be- 
come o’ me if I had n’t no one to think of and care for like 
an infant. So, if Monsieur Poulain is willing, he would 
do me a service, for which Pd be very grateful, if he 
would just speak to Monsieur Pons for me. Goodness ! 
a thousand francs’ annuity, — is that too much. I’d like 
to know? It is just so much laid by for Monsieur 
Schmucke ; for my dear patient told me he was going 
to leave me to that poor German, who is to be his heir, 
so he says. But what ’s a man who can’t put two and 


218 


Cousin Pons. 


two together in French, and who’s capable of going 
off to Germany if he feels lonely after his friend dies ? ” 
“ My dear Madame Cibot,” said the doctor, becoming 
verj^ grave, “ such matters don’t concern physicians, 
and the practice of my profession would be taken from 
me if it were known that I meddled with the testamen- 
tary dispositions of a client. The law does not permit 
a doctor to receive a legacy from his patient.” 

“What a fool of a law! for what’s to hinder me 
from dividing my legacy with you ? ” returned the 
Cibot instantly. 

“ I will go even further,” said the doctor. “ My 
professional conscience forbids me to speak to Mon- 
sieur Pons of his death. In the first place, he is not 
in sufficient danger to require me to do so ; and next, 
such a conversation might excite him and put him in 
a state that would do him real harm, and render his 
illness fatal.” 

“ But I don’t make no bones o’ telling him to put his 
affairs in order, and he ain’t none the worse,” returned 
the Cibot. “ He ’s used to it ; you needn’t be afraid.” 

“Don’t say anything more about it, my dear Madame 
Cibot. These things are not within the province of my 
profession ; they belong to the notaries — ” 

“But, my dear Monsieur Poulain, supposing Mon- 
sieur Pons asked you himself how he was, and whether 
he ought n’t to attend to his affairs, — would n’t you be 
willing to tell him it ’s good for people’s health to get 
'em all settled? And then, you know, you could slip 
in a little word about me — ” 

“Oh I of course if he speaks to me about making his 
will, I sha’n’t prevent him,” said the doctor. 


CouBin PonB, 


219 


“ Well, that’s all I ask ! ” exclaimed Madame Cibot. 
“ I came to thank you for your care of me,” she added, 
slipping a twisted bit of paper containing three gold 
pieces into his hand. “ That ’s all I can do just now. 
Ah! if I were rich, my dear Monsieur Poulain, you 
should be rich too ; for you ’re the image o’ the good 
God on this earth. Yes, ma’am, you ’ve got an angel 
for a son ! ” 

So saying, she got up ; Madame Poulain bowed to her 
with a kindly air, ana the doctor showed her out to the 
landing. There this horrible Lady Macbeth of the 
streets was suddenly dazzled by a gleam of infernal 
light : she perceived that the doctor had made himself 
her accomplice by accepting a fee for the pretended 
cure of her pretended injury. 

“ How is it, my good Monsieur Poulain,” she said to 
him, ‘‘ that after pulling me through my accident, you 
should refuse to save me from poverty by merely saying 
a few words ? ” 

The physician felt that he had let the devil catch him 
b}" a hair of his head, and that the hair was now twisted 
round the pitiless hook of the fiend’s red claw. Terri- 
fied at losing his integrity for so slight a cause, he an- 
swered the woman’s diabolical suggestion by an idea 
that was not less diabolical. 

“ Listen to me, my dear Madame Cibot,” he said, 
drawing her back into the antechamber and leading the 
way to his study. “I am going to pay the debt of 
gratitude I am under to you, to whom, indeed, I owe 
my situation at the mairiey 

“ We ’ll go halves,” she said quickly. 

“ In what? ” asked the doctor. 


220 


Cousin Pons. 


“ In the legacy,” answered the woman. 

“ You do not know me,” replied the doctor, taking 
the tone of Valerius Publicola. “ Don’t say another 
word about it. I have a college friend, a very intelli- 
gent fellow, with whom I am all the more intimate 
because we have had just about the same luck in life. 
When I was studying medicine, he was studying law ; 
while I was an interne at the hospital he was engrossing 
law-papers with Maitre Couture. Son of a shoemaker, 
just as I am the son of a breeches-maker, he has n’t 
found much lively s^^mpathy in this world, neither has 
he found much cash ; for, after all, cash is only ob- 
tainable through sympathy. He could n’t buy a prac- 
tice anywhere except in the provinces, at Mantes. 
Now, those provincials are so incapable of understand- 
ing Parisian cleverness that they found fault with him 
in every way.” 

“ Scum ! ” exclaimed the Cibot. 

“Yes,” resumed the doctor, “they combined so closely 
against him that he was forced to sell his practice in 
order to get back certain deeds which they construed 
into evidence of his wrong-doing. The procureur-du- 
roi was mixed up in it; that functionary came from 
those parts, and made common cause with his country- 
people. The poor fellow, who is even more out-at- 
elbows than I am, and who lives as I do, is named 
Fraisier. He has taken refuge in this arrondissement, 
where he is reduced to practise before the juge-de- 
paix and the criminal police-courts, though he is a bar- 
rister. He lives close by, in the rue de la Perle. Call 
at No. 9 and go up three pairs of stairs ; on the 
landing you will see, printed in gold letters on a small 


Cousin Fons, 


221 


bit of red morocco, ‘ Office of Monsieur Fraisier.* 
Fraisier attends specially to lawsuits among the work- 
ing-classes and the poor of this arrondissement, and 
he does it at very moderate prices. He is an honest 
man ; for I don’t need to tell you that, with his capa- 
bilities, If he were a scoundrel he would be rolling in 
his chariot. I will see my friend Fraisier this evening 
You can go to his place early to-morrow morning. He 
knows Monsieur Louchard, the bailiff, Monsieur Taba- 
reau, the sheriffs officer. Monsieur Vitel, the juge-de- 
paix^ and Monsieur Trognon, a notary ; he is already 
launched among the most important business men of 
the neighborhood. If he is willing to take charge of 
your interests, you could get Monsieur Pons to consult 
him ; and you ’ll find him, let me tell you, another self. 
Only, mind you don’t make to him, as you did to me, 
proposals which will wound his sense of honor ; he has 
good sense, and he will understand you. When it comes 
to paying for his services, I ’ll be your go-between.” 

Madame Cibot looked at the doctor with a sinister 
expression. 

“ Is n’t he the lawyer,” she asked, “ who pulled that 
shopkeeper in the rue Vieille-du-Temple, that Madame 
Florimond, out of the bad scrape she got into about her 
good friend’s will ? ” 

“ The same,” said the doctor. 

“Wasn’t it a shame,” cried the Cibot, “that after 
he’d won her cause and got her two thousand francs a 
year, she would n’t marry him when he asked her, and 
thought she was quit of her debt by giving him a dozen 
linen shirts and twenty-four handkerchiefs, — a regular 
trousseau I ” 


222 


Cousin Pons. 


“My dear Madame Cibot, the ‘ trousseau,* as yon 
call It, was worth a thousand francs, and Fraisier, who 
was then just setting up in this neighborhood, wanted 
the things badly. Besides, she paid his bill without 
a word. That affair brought Fraisier a great deal of 
business, and he is now very busy, among the same 
class that I have to do with ; our clients are much the 
same.** 

“None but the righteous thrive here below,” said 
Madame Cibot. “Well, good-by, and thank you, my 
dear Monsieur Poulain.** 

Here begins the drama, or, if you like it better, 
the terrible comedy, of the death of an old celibate 
delivered over, by force of circumstances, to the ra- 
pacity of covetous natures grouped around his bed, — 
a rapacity which in this case found auxiliaries in the 
keenest of all passions, that of a picture-maniac; in 
the hungr}^ eagerness of Monsieur Fraisier, who, when 
you see him in his den, will make you shudder ; in the 
thirst of an Auvergnat capable of anything, even a 
crime, to lay hold of money. This comedy, to which 
what has gone before may be considered as the intro- 
duction, employs as actors all the personages who, so 
far, have filled the scene. 


Cousin Pom, 




XVIII. 

A MAN OF LAW. 

The degradation of that title is one of the curiosi- 
ties of manners and morals which for adequate explana- 
tion require volumes. Write to a lawyer, and address 
him as “ a man of law,” and you will offend him as 
surely as you would offend a wholesale merchant of 
colonial produce by directing a letter to him as “Mr. 
So-and-so, grocer.” A tolerably large number of per- 
sons who ought to know — since these refinements of 
social breeding are their all of knowledge — are still 
unaware that the designation “man of letters” is the 
worst insult that can be offered to an author. The 
word “ monsieur” is a striking example of the life and 
death of words. “Monsieur” really means “mon- 
seigneur.” This title — formerly of importance, and 
still applied to kings by the transfoi;mation of “ sieur ” 
into “sire” — is given to everybody in these days. 
And yet the use of the word “ messire,” which is noth- 
ing more than a corruption of ‘ ‘ monsieur ” and its 
equivalent, raises a storm in the republican newspapers 
if by chance it is noticed in a burial permit ! Magis- 
trates, counsellors, jurists, judges, barristers, minis- 
terial oflScers, solicitors, attorneys, notaries, and special 
pleaders are the varieties under which all those who 
administer justice, or who live by it, are classed. The 


224 


Cousin Pons, 


lowest rungs of the ladder are the “ practitioner” and 
the “ man of law.” The practitioner — vulgarly called 
the bailiff’s follower — is a hap-hazard lawyer. He is 
emplo3^ed to look after the execution of the law and 
the judgments rendered ; he may in fact be called 
the executioner of the civil cases. As to the “ man 
of law,” so called, he is the special reproach of the 
profession. He is to the realm of law what the ‘ ‘ man 
of letters” is to literature. Rivalry", which eats into 
all professions in France, has invented terms of dis- 
paragement. Eveiy profession has its own form of 
insult. The contempt which breathes in the terms 
“ man of law ” and “ man of letters ” is confined to the 
singular. It is perfectly" proper, and wounds no one, 
to sa}^ “ men of letters ” and “ lawj^ers.” But in Paris 
each profession has its fag-end, — its individual fol- 
lowers who drag it down to the level of street practice 
and to the demands of the body of the people. Thus 
the “man of law,” the pettifogger, is to be found in cer- 
tain quarters ; just as we find the mone^’-lender making 
loans b}^ the week in the vicinity of the markets, — an 
individual who is to the realm of banking what Monsieur 
Fraisier was to the bar. It is curious to observe that 
the common people are as much in awe of the better 
class of the legal profession as they are of a fashionable 
restaurant. They go to the pettifogger just as they 
drink at a wine-shop. To keep at their own level is 
the rule of all classes in the social sphere. It is only 
exceptional natures who desire to climb the heights, 
who feel no degradation in the presence of superiors, 
who make for themselves a place, — as Beaumarchais let 
fall the watch of a nobleman, intending to humble him. 


Cousin Pons. 


225 


But such parvenus, especially those who are clever 
enough to hide their beginnings, are splendid exceptions 
to the rule. 

The next day, at six o’clock in the morning, Madame 
Cibot reconnoitred the house in the rue de la Perle 
where her future counsellor, the Sieur Fraisier, man of 
law, had taken up his abode. It was one of the old 
houses inhabited by the lesser bourgeoisie of former 
days, and was entered by a narrow passage. The 
ground-floor — occupied partly by the porter’s lodge, 
and partly by the shop of a cabinet-maker, whose work- 
rooms and warehouses incumbered the whole of the little 
inner courtyard — was divided in two by the passage 
and the well of the staircase, from whose walls damp- 
ness had thrown out the saltpetre. The house looked 
as if it had the leprosy. 

Madame Cibot went straight to the lodge, where she 
found a fellow-porter of Cibot’s, a shoemaker, with a 
wife and two young children, living in a space ten feet 
square, lighted from the little court-yard. A cordial 
understanding was set up between the two women so 
soon as Madame Cibot had announced her occupation, 
given her name, and spoken of her house in the rue de 
Normandie. After a quarter of an hour employed in 
preliminary gossip, — during which time the wife was 
getting ready the breakfast of the shoemaker and the 
two children, — Madame Cibot led the conversation to 
the tenants, and spoke of the man of law. 

“I have come to consult him,” she said, “ on busi- 
ness. One of his friends. Monsieur le docteur Poulain, 
sent me here. You know Monsieur Poulain ? ” 

“ I should think so ! ” said the portress of the rue de 
16 


226 


Cousin Pons, 


la Perle. He saved my little girl when, she had the 
croup.” 

“ He saved me too, ma’am. What sort of man is 
this Monsieur Fraisier ? ” 

“ He is a man, my dear lad}^, from whom at the end 
of the month it is very difiScult to wring the money for 
carrying up his letters.” 

That answer was quite sufficient for the intelligent 
Cibot. 

“ People can be poor and honest,” she said. 

“ I hope so,” answered Fraisier’s portress. “ As for 
us, we don’t roll in silver or gold, or even copper; 
but we haven’t a farthing that belongs to others.” 

In these words the Cibot recognized her own senti- 
ments. 

“ Well, any how,” she said, “ you think I may trust 
him?” 

“Ah! when Monsieur Fraisier does mean well b}’’ 
any one, I ’ve heard Madame Florimond say he had n’t 
his equal.” 

“ Why did n’t she marry him ? ” asked Madame Cibot 
quickly. “ She owed him her fortune. It would n’t be 
a bad thing for a petty shopkeeper who had been kept 
by an old man to marry a lawj er.” 

“Do you want to know why?” said the portress, 
drawing Madame Cibot into the passage. “You’re 
going up to him, are n’t you? Well, you ’ll know why 
as soon as you get into his room.” 

The staircase, lighted from the courtyard by windows 
whose sashes pushed up and down, showed plainly that 
the tenants, with the exception of the owner and Mon- 
sieur Fraisier, were mechanics by trade. The muddy 


Oousin Pons, 


227 


stairs bore traces of all their callings, in the shape of 
broken buttons, fragments of tin, scraps of gauze, bits 
of straw matting, and the like. The apprentices on the 
upper floors had scrawled obscene caricatures upon the 
walls. The last words of the portress excited the curi- 
osity of Madame Cibot, and very naturally decided her 
to consult this friend of Doctor Poulain, reserving to 
herself the choice of employing him after she had 
formed an opinion of him. 

“ I wonder sometimes how Madame Sauvage can 
stay in his service,” said the portress by way of com- 
mentary, as she followed Madame Cibot. ‘ ‘ I accom- 
pany you, ma’am,” she added, “ because I have to carry 
up the milk and the newspaper of my proprietor.” 

When they reached the second floor above the entre- 
sol, Madame Cibot found herself face to face with a 
door of a villanous description. The paint, a mongrel 
red, was plastered with a layer of black dirt a foot 
square, such as the hands deposit after a certain 
length of time and which architects attempt to counter- 
act in the better class of houses by putting glass shields 
above and below the locks. The wicket of the door, 
choked with dusty cobwebs (like those that caterers col- 
lect to give the look of age to their wine-bottles), served 
no purpose except to justify the nickname of “the 
prison-door,” — a name that was sustained, moreover, 
by the trefoil iron work, the fonnidable hinges, and the 
huge nail-heads with which the door was studded. Some 
miser, or some pamphleteer at war with all the world, 
must have invented such defensive apparatus. A leaden 
gutter through which the waste-water of each household 
was poured added its quota to the evil savors of the 


228 


Cousin Pons. 


staircase, whose ceilings were decorated with arabesques 
sketched in candle-smoke. And what arabesques ! The 
bell-rope, at the end of which hung a filthy brass olive, 
rang a little bell, whose feeble tinkle betrayed a crack in 
its metal. Every surrounding object added some touch in 
harmony with the general effect of this hideous picture. 

The Cibot heard the noise of a heavy step and the 
asthmatic breathing of a powerful woman ; and then 
Madame Sauvage revealed herself. She was one of 
those old women of whom Adrien Brauwer had a vision 
when he drew his “Witches starting for their Sab- 
bath,” — a woman five feet six inches tall and un- 
healthily fat, with the face of a grenadier and far more 
beard than Madame Cibot could show, arrayed in a 
frightful gown of the cheapest cotton fabric, with a 
bandanna round her head and curl-papers made of her 
master’s old prospectuses, wearing in her ears gold 
rings that were in the shape of carriage- wheels. This 
female cerberus held in her hand a small tin saucepan, 
much indented, from which the dripping milk wafted an 
additional odor upon the staircase, where its nauseous 
sour fumes mingled with the other smells. 

“ What may you want, ma’am?” demanded Madame 
Sauvage, as she flung a menacing glance at the Cibot, 
whom she thought too well dressed, — a glance all the 
more murderous because her eyes were naturally blood- 
shot. 

“I came to see Monsieur Fraisier, from his friend 
Doctor Poulain.” 

“ Oh, come in, ma’am ! ” returned the Sauvage in a 
tone suddenly reduced to amiability, proving that she 
had been told to expect this early visit. 


Cousin Pons, 


229 


Then, after making a theatrical courtesy, the semi- 
male servant of Monsieur Fraisier abruptly opened the 
door of an oflSce looking upon the street, in which sat 
the former barrister of Mantes. This study was ex- 
actly like all the little offices of third-class lawyers, where 
the shelves and boxes are of painted black wood, and 
the digests, in true clerical fashion, are so old as to be 
covered with the cobwebs of antiquity, where the red 
tape straggles down with lamentable untidiness, where 
the floor is gray with dust, the ceiling yellow with 
smoke, and the paper-boxes smell of the gambols of 
mice. The mirror on the chimney-piece was dim ; the 
flre-dogs, of cast iron, held a meagre log ; the clock, of 
modern marquetry, was worth about sixty francs, and 
had been bought in at some sale made by legal author- 
ity ; the candlesticks, which flanked the clock, were of 
pewter, though they pretended to rococo shapes that 
were badly rendered, and the painting in various 
places had peeled off* and exposed the metal. Monsieur 
Fraisier, a small and sickty looking man with a red face, 
and blotches which proclaimed his vitiated blood, who 
was perpetually scratching his right arm, and wore a 
wig set far back on his head, leaving to view a brick- 
colored skull of sinister expression, now rose from a 
cane arm-chair where he was seated on a circular cush- 
ion of green morocco. He assumed a polite manner 
and a fluted voice, saying, as he pushed forward a 
chair, — 

“ Madame Cibot, I believe.” 

“Yes, monsieur,” answered the woman, who sud- 
denly lost her habitual assurance ; she was scared by 
the voice, which sounded a good deal like the door-bell. 


230 


Cou%in Fons. 


and also by a glance which was even more lividly green 
than the greenish eyes of her future adviser. The office 
was so redolent of its Fraisier that the ver}^ atmosphere 
might be called pestilential. Madame Cibot at once 
understood why Madame Florimond had refused to 
become Madame Fraisier. 

“ Poulain spoke to me of you, my good lad}^,” said 
the man of law in the falsetto tones that people vul- 
garlj" term ‘ ‘mincing,” but which kept their sharp and 
acrid qualities like a vin-du-pays. 

Here he attempted to cover himself up by drawing 
over his sharp knees, which were clothed with some 
threadbare woollen stuff, the two sides of an old dress- 
ing-gown made of printed calico, from which the wad- 
ding took the liberty of oozing through numerous rents ; 
but the weight of this wadding dragged down the flaps 
and exposed to view a close-fltting under-shirt, now 
black with wear. After tightening, with a foppish air, 
the cords of the refractory garment so as to show the 
slenderness of his waist, Fraisier took the tongs and 
put together two bits of burned wood which had long 
avoided each other, like quarrelsome brothers. Then, 
seized with a sudden idea, — 

“ Madame Sauvage ! ” he cried. 

“ Well ! ” 

“ I am not at home to any one.” 

“Lord! I know that,” answered the virago in a 
domineering tone. 

“ That's my old foster-mother,” said the man of law, 
somewhat confused, to Madame Cibot. 

“ She ain’t no beauty,” replied his visitor. 

Fraisier laughed, and slid the bolt of the door, to 


Cousin Pons. 


231 


make sure that his housekeeper should not come and 
interrupt the Cibot’s confidences. 

“Well, madame, explain j^our business,” he said, 
sitting down, and again trying to drape his dressing- 
gown over his knees. “ Any one who is recommended 
to me by the sole friend I have in the world may count 
upon me — yes, absolutely.” 

Madame Cibot talked for half an hour before the man 
of law allowed himself to utter one word of interruption ; 
he had the air of a young soldier listening to a veteran 
of the Old Guard. This silence and Fraisier’s submis- 
sive air, together with the attention he seemed to lend to 
her fiux of gabble, specimens of which we have already 
heard in the Cibot's conversations with poor Pons, 
caused that suspicious female to forget some of the 
precautions which the ignoble surroundings of the man 
had suggested to her. When she paused, expecting 
advice, the little lawyer, whose green eyes with black 
speckles had been studying his future client, was sud- 
denly seized with what is called a “ graveyard cough,” 
and had recourse to an earthenware bowl full of herb- 
tea, which he emptied. 

“If it hadn’t been for Poulain, I should be dead 
already, my dear Madame Cibot,” Fraisier replied to 
the motherly glance she cast upon him. “ He has given 
me back my health.” 

He seemed to have lost all remembrance of his cli- 
ent’s tale, and she began to think of leaving a man 
evidently in such a d3dng state. 

“Madame, in all matters of bequest or inheritance 
it is necessary to be sure of two things before proceed- 
ing to take any steps,” he said at last, — “ first, is the 


232 


Cousin Pons^. 


property worth taking any ti-ouble about ; secondly, who 
are the legal heirs ? for if the bequest is the booty, the 
heirs are the enem}"/’ 

Madame Cibot told about R^monencq and 6lie Ma- 
gus, and said the two wily confederates had valued the 
pictures at six hundred thousand francs. 

“ Will they pay that price for them ? ” asked the late 
barrister of Mantes. “ For you see, madame, men of 
business don’t believe in pictures. What is a picture? 
Forty sous worth of canvas, or a hundred thousand 
francs worth of paint. The hundred-thousand-franc 
paintings are very well known, — though there ’s many 
a fancy price put upon them, even on the most famous. 
A well-known moneyed man, whose gallery was much 
lauded and visited and engraved, — actually engraved ! 
— was thought to have spent millions upon it. He 
died, -r-for people do die ; and behold, his genuine mas- 
terpieces did n’t fetch two hundred thousand francs ! 
You must bring me your connoisseurs. Now let us 
hear about the heirs.” 

And Fraisier resumed his attitude of attention. When 
he heard the name of the president Camusot, he shook 
his head with a grimace which made Madame Cibot pay 
extreme attention to him. She tried to read that brow, 
that infamous countenance, and felt she had to do with 
a masked battery. 

“ Yes, my good monsieur,” she repeated, “ my Mon- 
sieur Pons is own cousin to the president Camusot de 
Marville ; he ’s everlastingly prating to me of the rela- 
tionship. The first wife of Monsieur Camusot, the 
great silk-dealer — ” 

“The one they have just made peer of France — ” 


Cousin Pons, 


233 


“ — was a demoiselle Pons, first cousin to Monsieur 
Pons.” 

“ Therefore the Camusot de Marvilles are first 
cousins once removed — ” 

“ They are nothing at all, for they've quarrelled with 
him.” 

Monsieur Camusot de Marville, before coming to 
Paris, had been for five 3’ears, as we know, president 
of the justice-courts at Mantes. Not only was he well 
remembered there, but he continued to hold relations 
with the place ; for his successor, the judge with whom 
he was most intimate during his stay, was still president 
of the court, and consequently knew Fraisier through 
and through. 

“Are you aware, madame,” said the latter, when 
Madame Cibot had closed the red sluice-gates of her 
inundating mouth, “are j^ou aware that you will have 
as your chief enemy a man who sends people to the 
scaffold ? ” 

The Cibot gave a leap on her chair which made her 
look like the toy called a jack-in-the-box. 

“ Be cal^, my dear lady,” resumed Fraisier. “ Noth- 
ing more natural than that you shouldn’t know what 
the president of the Cour-royale in Paris really is ; but 
you ought to have known that Monsieur Pons has a 
legal heir and next of kin. Monsieur le president de 
Marville is the sole heir of your patient ; but he is col- 
lateral in the third degree, therefore, according to law. 
Monsieur Pons has the right to leave his property to 
whom he wiU. You seem not to know that the daugh- 
ter of Monsieur de Marville married, about six weeks 
ago, the eldest son of Monsieur le comte Popinot, peer 


234 


Cousin Poris, 


of France, formerly minister of commerce and agricul- 
ture, one of the most influential men in the politics of 
the day. This marriage makes the president even more 
formidable than he is as sovereign of the assizes.” 

The Cibot shuddered at the word. 

“ Yes, it is he who sends you there,” said Fraisier. 
“ Ah ! my dear lady, you don’t know what a red robe 
is. It is bad enough to have a black one like mine. 
If you see me as I am to-day, ruined, blighted, dying, it 
is because I once unconsciously ran against a little pro- 
vincial procureur-du-roi. I was forced to sell my prac- 
tice for a song, and was happy to escape with the loss of 
my whole fortune. If I had attempted to resist I could n’t 
have kept my professional status. And there ’s another 
thing you don’t seem to know. If the matter concerned 
president Camusot alone, it might be managed ; but 
he has a wife, let me tell you ! and if you were face to 
face with that woman, you would tremble as if you had 
one foot on the scaffold, and your hair would stand on 
end. Madame de Marville is vindictive enough to 
spend ten years in coiling a net about you in which you 
would perish. She drives her husband just as a child 
spins its top. She once caused a charming young fel- 
low to commit suicide in the Conciergerie, and turned 
the hair of a count white, with an accusation of forgery ; 
she came near causing one of the greatest nobles of the 
court of Charles X. to be deprived of his civil rights, 
and she actually procured the overthrow of the procur- 
eur-general^ Monsieur de Grandville.” 

“He that lives in the rue Vieille du Temple, at the 
comer of the rue Saint-Fran90is ? ” said Madame Cibot. 

“The same. They say she wants to make her hus- 


Cousin Pons, 


235 


band minister of justice ; and I not sure that she 
won’t get her ends. If she took it into her head to send 
us both to the assizes and to the galleys, I, who am as 
innocent as the babe unborn, I should at once get a 
passport and take ship for the United States ; so well 
do I know what ‘justice’ means. Madame de Marville 
has stripped herself and her husband of all their prop- 
erty so as to marry her only daughter to the 3"Oung 
Vicomte Popinot (who is to be, the3r sa}", the heir of 
your proprietor. Monsieur Pillerault) ; and the end of it 
is that thej^ are reduced to live on the president’s salary". 
You may believe me, my dear lady, under the circum- 
stances, Madame de Marville won’t let your Monsieur 
Pons’s property" escape her. I ’d rather face a battery 
of guns loaded with grapeshot than feel I had such a 
woman against me.” 

“ But,” insisted the Cibot, “ they ’ve quarrelled.” 

“ What does that signify?” said Fraisier. “ All the 
more reason ! To kill a relation jrou quarrel with, 
that’s one thing; but to inherit his property, that’s 
another, — it’s a pleasure.” 

“ But the good man has a holy horror of his relations. 
He keeps telling me that those people — I remember 
their names. Monsieur Cardot, Monsieur Berthier, and 
the rest — have crushed him as you ’d crush an egg 
under a tumbril.” 

“ Do you want to be crushed in the same way? ” 

“ Good God ! ” exclaimed the woman. “ Ah ! Ma- 
dame Fontaine was right when she said I ’d meet with 
obstacles ; but, after all, she said I ’d succeed.” 

“ Listen to me, my dear Madame Cibot. You 
may possibly squeeze thirty thousand francs out of this 


236 


Cousin Pons, 


aflEair ; but as to inheriting the property, you must put 
that out of your head. Poulain and I talked over your 
affair last night — ” 

Here Madame Cibot gave another leap in her chair. 

“ Hey ! What *s the matter ? ” 

“ If you know all about it, what have you let me 
talk like a magpie for?” 

“Madame Cibot, I knew all about your affair, but 
I did n’t know all about Madame Cibot ! Every client 
has his or her own nature.” 

Thereupon Madame Cibot cast upon her future coun- 
sel a singular look, in which all her suspicions burst 
forth; and Fraisier intercepted the look. 


Cousin Pom. 


237 


XIX. 

fraisier’s secret intention. 

“ I resume,” said Fraisier. “ You see you formerly 
put our friend Poulain into relations with old Monsieur 
Pillerault, the great uncle of Madame la comtesse Popi- 
not ; and that ’s one of ^’’our claims to my services. 
Poulain goes to see your proprietor every two weeks 
(now, remark this !), and he has learned aU these details 
from him. This old merchant was at the marriage of 
his great-great-nephew (for he is an uncle of expecta- 
tions ; he has an income of some fifteen thousand francs, 
and for the last twenty-five years he has lived like a 
monk, — has n’t spent a thousand crowns a year) . He 
told Poulain about the marriage. It appears that all 
this fuss arose because your old man, the musician, 
tried, out of revenge, to disgrace the Marville family. 
There are two sides to a shield ; your sick man may 
call himself innocent, but other people think him a 
monster.” 

“ I should n’t be a bit surprised if he was,” cried the 
Cibot. “Just imagine! Here’s ten years that I’ve 
been paying out my savings on him, and he knows it ; 
and he ain’t willing to name me in his will, — no, mon- 
sieur, he ain’t ; he ’s as obstinate as a mule about it. 
I ’ve talked at him for ten days, and the old cur don’t 
budge no more than the trey in a lotter3\ He don’t 


238 


Cousin Pons, 


open his lips ; he just stares at me — with such an air ! 
The most I can get out of him is that he *11 recommend 
me to Monsieur Schmucke.*’ 

“ Does he mean to make a will in favor of this Mon- 
sieur Schmucke ? *’ 

“ He ’s going to leave him everything.” 

“ Now, listen, my dear Madame Cibot. In order to 
have any just ideas and to make any plan at all, I 
must know this Monsieur Schmucke, 1 must see the 
collection which you say is the bulk of the property, 
and I must have a conference with that Jew you men- 
tioned ; and then you must let me direct you.” 

“ We ’ll see about that, my good Monsieur Fraisier.’* 

“ What do you mean, — see about it ? ” said Fraisier, 
shooting a venomous glance at the Cibot, and speaking 
in his natural voice. “ Am I, or am I not, your coun- 
sel? Let*s understand each other.” 

The Cibot felt that he had taken her measure, and 
cold chills ran down her back. 

“ You have my entire confidence,” she answered, 
feeling herself at the mercy of a tiger. 

• “We lawyers are accustomed to being betrayed by 
our clients. Look well at your position : it is splendid ! 
If 3"OU follow my advice in every particular, you shall 
have — I ’ll guarantee it — thirty or forty thousand 
francs out of that property. But remember, there are 
two sides to the finest coin. Suppose Madame de Mar- 
ville finds out that Monsieur Pons’s propert}- is worth a 
million, and that you want a slice of it? — There are 
always persons — ready — to tell these things,” he said, 
in a parenthesis. 

This parenthesis, slowly delivered, with two pauses. 


Cousin Pons, 


239 


made the Cibot shudder; and she instantly thought 
that Fraisier himself was ready to make the revelation. 

“ — My dear client, in ten minutes she could make 
Monsieur Pillerault turn you out of your situation at 
an hour’s notice ! ” 

“What harm would that do me?” said the Cibot, 
springing to her feet like a Bellona. “ I should still 
be the housekeeper of my two gentlemen.” 

“ Yes, and seeing that, she would lay a trap for 
you ; and you would wake up some fine morning in a 
dungeon, — you and your husband, — accused of a 
capital crime ! ” 

“I!” shrieked the Cibot. “I, who haven’t got a 
penny of other people’s property ! I ! 1 ! — ” 

And she talked on for five minutes, while Fraisier 
watched this great artist executing her concerto of self- 
praise. He was cold and satirical ; his eye pierced the 
woman like a stiletto. Inwardly" he was laughing, and 
his dry wig shook. He was Robespierre in the days 
when the French Sylla wrote verses. 

“Why? And how? Under what pretext?” she 
cried, as she ended her oration. 

“ Do you want to know how you can be brought to 
the guillotine?” 

The Cibot turned as pale as death. The phrase fell 
upon her neck like the knife of the law, and she looked 
wildly at Fraisier. 

“ Now listen to me, my dear child,” resumed Fraisier, 
checking a movement of satisfaction which the woman’s 
terror caused him. 

“ I ’d rather let the whole thing go,” murmured the 
Cibot. 


240 


Cousin Pons, 


And she tried to rise. 

“ Stop ! — for you ought to see your own danger. I 
owe it to you to tell you the truth,” said Fraisier im- 
periously. “The scheme is a battle ; and you will be 
carried farther than you think for. You ’ll get drunk 
on the idea, and strike hard — ” 

Another gesture of denial from Madame Cibot, who 
came near choking. 

“ Come, come, my little mother,” said Fraisier with 
horrible familiarity, “ you ’ll go pretty far — ” 

“ Do you take me for a thief ? ” 

“ You ’ve got a receipt from Monsieur Schmucke that 
did n’t cost you much. Ha, ha ! my fine woman, you 
are here in a confessional ! Don’t try to deceive your 
confessor, — above all when that confessor can read 
your heart!” 

The Cibot was terrified at the insight of the man, and 
now understood the meaning of the close attention with 
which he had listened to her. 

“Well,” said Fraisier, “you must admit that Ma- 
dame de Marville won’t let you outrun her in the race 
for the propert3^ You ’ll be suspected ; 3"Ou ’ll be 
watched. You ’ll succeed in getting into your gentle- 
man’s will : very good I And some fine morning Justice 
will step in, and get hold of some herb- tea, and find 
arsenic in the dregs ; and j^ou and your husband will be 
arrested, tried, and condemned, for having attempted 
to kill the sieur Pons, before j^ou ’ve had a chance to 
touch your legacy. I defended a poor woman at Ver- 
sailles who was as innocent as j’ou would be in a like 
case. Matters went just as I tell you ; and all I could 
do for her was to save her life. The poor thing 


Cousin Pons, 241 

had twenty years of hard labor, and is now in Saint- 
Lazare.” 

The terror of Madame Cibot was at its height. Pale 
as a ghost, she looked at the pinched little man with the 
livid green eyes as some poor Moorish woman, faithful 
to her religion, might have looked at the Inquisitors 
when she heard them condemn her to the stake. 

“ Do you say, my good Monsieur Fraisier, that if I 
follow your advice, and trust my interests to j’ou, that 
I shall get something without nothing to fear ? ” 

“ I will guarantee you thirty thousand francs,” said 
Fraisier, feeling sure of his ground. 

“ Well, now, you know how I love that dear Monsieur 
Poulain,” she said in her most wheedling tone. “ It was 
he who told me to come and see you ; and the worthy 
man did n’t send me here to be told I should be guillo- 
tined as a poisoner.” 

She burst into tears, for the very idea of the guillotine 
made her flesh creep ; her nerves were strained, terror 
gripped her heart, and she lost her self-control. Fraisier 
enjoyed his triumph. When he perceived her momen- 
tarj" hesitation and the danger of losing his chance, he 
made up his mind to master the woman, terrify her, 
stupefy her, and hold her at his mercy, bound hand and 
foot. The Cibot, who had entered the office as a fly 
flutters into a spider’s web, was destined to stay there, 
netted, entangled, and used as provender for the ambi- 
tion of the man of law. In fact, Fraisier was resolved 
to get the support of his declining years, ease, happi- 
ness, and public consideration out of this aflair. It had 
been calmly and soberly gone over in all its bearings, 
examined as it were with a magnifying-glass, by himself 
16 


242 


Cousin Pons, 


and Poulain, the preceding evening. The doctor had 
sketched Schmucke to his friend, and their shrewd minds 
at once sounded the depths of all hypotheses, and took 
into account the dangers as well as the resources of the 
enterprise. Fraisier, with a rush of enthusiasm, ex- 
claimed: “The success of both our lives is in it!” 
He promised Poulain a place as surgeon-in-chief of a 
hospital in Paris, just as he promised himself the posi- 
tion of juge-de^paix of an arrondissement. 

To become a juge-de-paix ! To this man full of 
ability, a doctor of law without a gown, it was an 
object so difficult to attain that he thought of it as the 
lawyers in the Chamber think of a judge’s robe, or the 
Italian priests of the tiara. The thought seemed folly. 
The present justice, Monsieur Vitel, before whom Frai- 
sier’s cases were called, was a man sixty-nine years old 
and rather sickly, who thought of retiring from the 
office ; and Fraisier talked to Poulain of becoming his 
successor just as Poulain talked to Fraisier of a rich 
heiress whom he meant to marry after he had saved her 
life. Few persons realize how many eager desires are 
inspired b3^ the various official stations in Paris. To 
live in Paris is the first desire of Frenchmen. Let the 
simplest office become vacant, and a hundred women 
will rise as one man and work upon all their friends to 
obtain it. A probable vacancy among the twenty-four 
tax-collectors of Paris will rouse a perfect riot of ambi- 
tion in the Chamber of Deputies. Such places are in 
the gift of the government, and are made an afiair of 
state. The salary of a guge-de-paix in Paris is about 
six thousand francs a year, and the registration of that 
office brings in at least a hundred thousand more. It 


Cousin Pons. 


243 


is one of the most coveted posts in the legal profes^ 
sion. Fraisier, appointed juge-de-paix., and the friend 
of the surgeon-in-chief of a great hospital, could marry 
wealth and help Poulain to do likewise ; it would be a mu- 
tual lending of hands. The night had passed its leaden 
roller over these dreams of the late barrister of Mantes, 
and a formidable scheme had germinated and sprouted, 
fertile in promise and full of intrigues. The Cibot was 
the pin-bolt of the drama. The effect of the sudden 
revolt of that implement may therefore be imagined. 
Fraisier had not foreseen it ; but the man of law promptly 
crushed the bold effort at escape, by bringing to bear 
upon the woman the whole force of his venomous nature. 

“My dear Madame Cibot, don’t be troubled,” he 
said, taking her hand. 

His own hand, cold as the skin of a snake, produced 
a terrible impression on Madame Cibot, and caused a 
physical reaction which checked her agitation ; the 
toad Astaroth of Madame Fontaine seemed to her less 
dangerous to touch than that poison-phial before her, 
capped with a red wig, and whose voice was like the 
creaking of a door. 

“ Don’t think I ’ve frightened you without cause,” 
resumed Fraisier, who observed this fresh movement 
of repulsion. “The circumstances which have made 
Madame de Marville’s terrible reputation are so well 
known at the Palais-de- Justice, that any one you choose 
to ask will tell you about them. The great noble who 
was so nearly deprived of his civil rights is the Mar- 
quis d’Espard. The Marquis d’Esgrignon is the one 
that just escaped the galleys. The gallant young man, 
rich, handsome, and full of promise, who was to have 


244 


Cousin Pons, 


married a daughter of one of the first families in France, 
but who hanged himself in a cell at the Conciergerie, 
was the celebrated Lucien de Rubempre, whose fate 
roused all Paris for the time being. It was connected 
with the bequest of his mistress, the famous Esther, who 
left him several millions, and he was accused of having 
poisoned her. The young poet was absent from Paris 
at the time the woman died, and did not even know he 
was her heir. No one could be more innocent than 
that. Well, after he had undergone an examination by 
the president, Camusot de Marville, he hanged himself 
in his cell. Justice, like the healing art, has its vic- 
tims : in the one case you die for society ; in the 
second, for science,” added Fraisier, letting a hideous 
smile fiicker on his lips. “ Well, j’ou see I know all the 
dangers. I*ve been ruined by justice, — I, a poor little 
obscure lawyer. My experience has cost me dear, and 
I put it at your service.” 

“ My God ! no, thank you ! ” said the Cibot ; “I give 
up the whole thing. I don’t want nothing but my dues. 
I’ve been an honest woman these thirty years, mon- 
sieur. My Monsieur Pons did sa}’ he ’d recommend me 
in his will to his friend Monsieur Schmucke. Well, I ’ll 
end my days in peace with that good German.” 

Fraisier had overshot his mark ; he had discouraged 
the Cibot, and was obliged to efface the dreadful im- 
pression he had made upon her. 

“ Don’t let us despair,” he said ; “go your own way 
quietly. Don’t be afraid ; we will bring the affair 
through safely.” 

“ Then teU me what I’m to do, my good Monsieur 
Fraisier How am I to get my annuity, and — ” 


Cousin Pons, 


245 


“ — feel no remorse?” he said quickly, cutting short 
her words. “To manage such matters is precisely 
what lawyers were invented for. People can’t deal 
with these things unless legally. You don’t know the 
law ; I do. With me you ’ve got it on your side ; you 
will get your rights peaceably, in sight of all men. 
As for your conscience, that ’s your own affair.” 

“ Well, go on,” said Madame Cibot, made happy 
and inquisitive by these words. 

“ I can’t say more at present. I have not studied 
the affair in all its bearings ; so far, I have only con- 
sidered the obstacles. The first step, of course, is to 
induce Pons to make a will : you can’t go wrong there. 
But above all, let us know at once whom he means to 
make his heir ; for if he leaves his money to you — ” 
“No, he won’t; he don’t like me! Ah I if I’d 
known the value of his gimcracks, and if I ’d only sus- 
pected what he told me the other day about his love- 
affairs, I shouldn’t be a bit uneasy now.” 

“ Well,” said Fraisier, “ do you go on as usual. 
Dying folks have queer fancies, my dear Madame Cibot ; 
they upset all expectation. Let him make his will, and 
we ’ll see what comes of it. But, first of all, there 
must be a valuation of the property. You must put 
me in communication with the Jew and with that Re- 
moneneq ; they will be very useful to us. Trust me ; I 
am yours. I am the friend of my client through thick 
and thin, when he is mine. Friend or foe ; that’s my 
nature.” 

“ Well, I ’ll be yours,” said the Cibot. “ And about 
your fees ; Monsieur Poulain will — ” 

“ Don’t mention them,” said Fraisier. “ Be careful 


246 


Cousin Pons, 


to keep Poulain in attendance on the patient ; the doc- 
tor has the purest and most loyal heart that I know, 
and we need — don’t you see? — a trustworthy man. 
Poulain is worth a dozen of me ; I ’ve grown wicked.” 

“ You look as if you had,” said the Cibot ; “ but I ’ll 
trust 3^ou all the same.” 

“ And you ’ll do right ! ” he said. “ Come and see 
me whenever anything happens, and keep on as you 
are doing now. You are a clever woman, and things 
will turn out well.” 

“ Adieu, dear Monsieur Fraisier ; good health to you ! 
Your servant ! ” 

Fraisier accompanied his client to the door, and there 
— just as Madame Cibot herself had done the night be- 
fore to the doctor — he said his final word : 

“ If you could induce Monsieur Pons to seek my ad- 
vice, it would be so much gained.” 

“I’ll try to do so,” said the Cibot. 

“ My good woman,” continued Fraisier, drawing her 
back within the study, “I am very well acquainted 
with Monsieur Trognon, the notary, — the notary, you 
know, of the whole neighborhood. If Monsieur Pons 
has n’t a notary, speak to him about Trognon ; see that 
he employs him.” 

“ I see ! ” returned Madame Cibot. 

As she moved away she heard the rustle of petticoats 
and the sound of a heavy foot trying to step lightly. 
Once alone and in the street, Madame Cibot, after 
walking some little distance, recovered her freedom of 
thought. Though she remained under the infiuence of 
this conference, and was still in terror of justice, judges, 
and the scaffold, she took a very natural resolution, 


Cousin Pons, 


247 


which, sooner or later, was to bring her secretly in con- 
flict with her terrible adviser. 

“ Hey ! ’’ she said to herself, “ what do I want part- 
ners for? I’ll line my own pockets first, and then^ 
may be, I ’ll take what they ofier me to serve their own 
interests.” 

This resolution was fated, as we shall see, to hasten 
the end of the unhappy musician. 


248 


Cousin Pom. 


XX. 


BEAJ>AlifE CIBOT AT THE THEATRE. 

“ Well, my dear Monsieur Schmucke,” said the Cibot, 
entering the appartement, “ and how ’s our dear love of 
a patient? ” 

“Ferry pad!” answered the German; “Bons has 
peen vlighdy all naight.” 

“ What did he say ? ” 

“ Only zduff and nonzenze ! He zay he leaf me his 
broberdy , — on gondission dat noding pe zold. And he 
gried, boor man, he gried I It prakes my heart I ” 

“ That ’ll all pass off, my lamb ! ” said Madame Cibot. 
“I’ve kept you waiting for your breakfast; here it is 
nine o’clock ! But don’t you scold me ; I ’ve been mighty 
busy, all about your affairs. For, you see, there was n’t 
no money, and I’ve had to raise some.” 

“ How tid you? ” asked Schmucke. 

“ Why, my uncle I ” 

“ Your ungle ! ” 

“ Up the spout.” 

“Z-bout?” 

“ Oh, the dear man, if he ain’t innocent! You’re 
a saint, an angel, an archbishop o’ purity, a man to 
stuff and keep in a glass-case, as that old actor used 
to say. Here you Ve been in Paris and you ’ve seen — 
what have n’t you seen? — the Revolution o’ July — and 


Cousin Pons. 


249 


you don't know what a pawnbroker is ! He 's the man 
who lends you money on your clothes and things. I 've 
just taken him all our silver forks and spoons ; eight on 
’em, with bead edges. Bah ! Cibot must eat his food 
with that Algiers metal ; they say it ’s all the fashion. 
’Tain’t worth while to tell our dear cherub nothing about 
it : ’t would only worret him and turn him yellower nor 
what he is ; he ’s fretted enough a’ready. Let ’s save 
him first, and think about the money afterwards. Take 
it easy, and swim with the stream ; fit your back to the 
burden, you know. Ain’t that true ? ” 

“ Goot anchel ! Zubleeme heart!” cried poor 
Schmucke, taking Madame Cibot’s hand and laying it 
on his own heart with an expression of much feeling. 

The angel raised her eyes to heaven and showed the 
tears in them. 

“ Come, come, be done. Papa Schmucke ! You ’re a 
funny man ! That ’s coming it a little strong. I ain’t 
nothing only a woman o’ the people, and my heart ’s in 
my hand. Yes, I ’ve got something here ! ” she cried, 
striking her breast, “as well as you; though you’ve 
both o’ you got hearts of gold.” 

“ Baba Schmucke ! ” exclaimed the old pianist, much 
moved. “ Ah ! I zuffer zuch cri-ef, my dears are ploot. 
I bray to Heaven zo mooch, zo mooch, I haf no laife 
left ; I gan nefer zurfife Bons ! ” 

“Goodness! I believe you. You’ll kill yourselli 
my poor love ! ” 

“Lof!” 

“ Well, yes, my little son.” 

“ Zone ! ” 

“ My darling, then, if you like it better/ 


250 


CouBin Pom, 


“ I toan’d know vat you zay.” 

“ Well, well, you let me take care of you, and you do 
what I tell you ! If you don’t, I shall have two sick 
men to look after. According to my ideas, we ’ve got 
to divide the nursing between us. You can’t give no 
more lessons. It tires you out, and you ain’t fit for noth- 
ing here, where you ’ll have to sit up nights, remember ; 
for Monsieur Pons, he ’s going from bad to worse. 
Hadn’t I better call round on all your pupils to-da}^ 
and tell ’em you are ill ? and then you ’ll be able to sit 
up with our dear lamb, and sleep from five in the morn- 
ing till, say, two in the afternoon. I ’ll do the hardest 
nursing, — that ’s in the daytime ; because then I ’ve got 
to get your breakfast and dinner, and take care of the 
patient, and get him up and change him, and give him 
his medicines. To go on as I ’m doing now, I cpuld n’t 
stand it ten days longer nohow. Here’s thirty days 
I ’ve been ready to drop. What would become of both 
o’ you if I was to fall ill again ? And if you did ? Good- 
ness ! it ’s enough to make one shiver. Look how you ’re 
all used up just for nothing but taking care o’ monsieur 
last night.” 

She led Schmucke to a mirror, and he saw how 
changed he was. 

“So, if you’ll be guided by me. I’ll get you your 
breakfast in a trice, and you can watch the dear man 
two hours. Then, if you give me a list of the pupils, I ’ll 
go round and see ’em all, and you ’ll be at liberty for a 
couple o’ weeks. You shall go to bed as soon as ever I 
get back, and sleep till evening.” 

This proposal was so judicious that Schmucke agreed 
at once. 


Cousin Pons, 


251 


“ Mum to Monsieur Pons, you know, for he ’d think 
he was dead if we told him he must give up the theatre 
and his lessons. The poor man would fancy he could n’t 
get back his pupils, or some such nonsense. Monsieur 
Poulain says we can’t save our dear Benjamin if we don’t 
keep his mind easy.” 

“ Yes, yes ; mek de preakfast, and I vill mek a lizde 
and gif you de at-tresses. You are raight ; I know 
dat.” 

An hour later, the Cibot, in her Sunday best, de- 
parted, to the amazement of Remonencq, in a milord^ 
determined to represent in a suitable manner the con- 
fidential housekeeper of the two Nut-crackers in all 
the schools and to all the private pupils of the two 
musicians. 

It is unnecessary to report the divers discourses, exe- 
cuted like the variations of a theme, into which the Cibot 
launched in presence of schoolmistresses and in the 
bosom of families ; it will suffice to depict the scene 
which took place in the official sanctum of the Illustrious 
Gaudissard, where Madame Cibot penetrated, not with- 
out meeting unexpected difficulties. The directors of 
Parisian theatres are more carefully guarded than kings 
and ministers. The reason why they erect such strong 
barriers between themselves and other mortals is not 
far to seek. Kings defend themselves against ambitions 
only ; but the director of a theatre has the self-love of 
authors and actors to fear and to escape. 

The Cibot, however, overcame all obstacles by the 
sudden intimacy she set up between herself and the 
female concierge. Porters have a common ground of 
recognition, just as men of the various professions have 


252 


Cousin Pons. 


theirs. Each employment has its shibboleth, as it has 
its deformities and its scars. 

‘‘ Ah, madame, 3"ou are the doorkeeper of a theatre,” 
the Cibot said ; “I’m only the poor concierge of a house 
in the rue de Normandie, where the leader of your 
orchestra. Monsieur Pons, lives. Oh! how happ3" I 
should be if I had your situation, and could see the 
actors and the authors and the ballet-dancers coming 
and going. Why, you ’ve got the marshal’s truncheon 
of our calling, as the old actor said.” 

“ And how is that good Monsieur Pons?” asked the 
other. 

“ Very poorly. He hasn’t been out of his bed these 
two months. He’ll be carried out o’ the house feet 
foremost when he does go, that *s certain.” 

“ He ’ll be a great loss.” 

“ That’s so. I’ve come with a message to j’our di- 
rector to explain his condition : can’t you manage, my 
dear, to let me see him ? ” 

“ A lady from Monsieur Pons.” 

It was thus that the valet of the theatre announced 
Madame Cibot, having received his cue from the door- 
keeper. Gaudissard had just arrived for a rehearsal. 
It so happened that no one was waiting to speak to him, 
and that the authors of the play and the actors were 
late. He was delighted to get news of his leader ; ac- 
cordingly, he made a Napoleonic gesture, and the Cibot 
was ushered in. 

The former commercial traveller, now the director of 
a popular theatre, imposed upon his joint-stock company 
and cheated it, regarding it much as a man regards a 
legitimate wife. His financial development had reacted 


Cousin Pom, 


253 


npon his person. Grown healthy and fat and rosy with 
prosperity and good living, Gaudissard had frankly 
emerged as a Mondor. 

“We are aiming for Beaujon,*" he would say, hoping 
to crack the first joke at his own expense. 

“You haven’t got beyond Turcaret,” retorted Bixiou, 
who occasionally cut him out in the smiles of the first 
danseuse at the theatre, the celebrated Heloise Brise- 
tout. The truth is the ex-IUustrious Gaudissard worked 
his theatre solely and undisguisedly in his own interests. 
After insisting on admission as collaborateur in the 
various ballets, vaudevilles, and minor pieces which 
were played at the theatre, he took advantage of their 
authors’ impecuniosity to buy out the remaining share. 
These pieces, always added to the bill after the leading 
play, brought Gaudissard a royalty of several napoleons 
nightly. He traded by proxy on the sale of the tickets, 
and claimed a certain number for himself, as the per- 
quisite of his office, which insured him a tithe of the 
profits. These three sources of managerial revenue, 
besides the letting of his boxes and the gifts of incom- 
petent actresses who wanted to fill the minor parts and 
appear as pages or queens, together with his legitimate 
third of the profits, ran up the total of his gains so 
enormously that the stock-company, to whom the other 
two thirds belonged, had obtained little more than a 
tenth of the actual receipts. Nevertheless that tenth 
produced an interest of fifteen per cent on its value. 
Consequently Gaudissard, strong in the support that such 
a dividend won him, was accustomed to boast of his intel- 
ligence, his integrity, his zeal, and the great good fortune 
of the company. When Comte Popinot, with an appear- 


254 


Cousin Pons, 


ance of interest, asked Monsieur Matifat, or General 
Gouraud, Matifat’s son-in-law, or Crevel, whether he was 
satisfied with Gaudissard, Gouraud, lately made peer of 
France, replied : “ They say he cheats us ; but he is such 
a good fellow and so witty, that we are satisfied.” 

“ Then it is like the old fable of La Fontaine,” said 
Comte Popinot, smiling. 

Gaudissard employed his capital in business outside 
of the theatre. He had taken the measure of the Graffs, 
the Schwabs, and the Brunners, and he invested in 
the railways the new banking-house was concerned in. 
Concealing his shrewdness beneath the careless ease 
and frankness of a roue and a voluptuar}", he seemed to 
think of nothing but his pleasures and his toilet ; while 
in fact he thought of everj’thing, and put to use the 
vast business experience he had acquired as a com- 
mercial traveller. This upstart, who never took himself 
seriously, lived in a luxurious appartement decorated by 
an upholsterer, where he gave suppers and fetes to cele- 
brated people. Ostentatious in all his ways, and liking 
to do things handsomely, he gave himself out as an 
easy, accommodating fellow, and seemed the less dan- 
gerous because he retained what he called the “ patter” 
of his former calling, to which he had lately added the 
slang of the green-room. Now, the fashion of actors is 
to sa}" things bluntlj' ; and the wit that he borrowed from 
behind the scenes, when added to the lively drollery of a 
bagman, gave him the air and reputation of an important 
character. At the present moment he was thinking of 
selling his theatrical license and “ passing, ” to use his 
own language, “ to other labors.” He wished to be 
the president of a railway, to become a ‘‘ solid man,” a 


CouBin Pons, 


255 


government official, and to marry Mademoiselle Minard, 
the daughter of one of the rich maj^ors of Paris. He 
hoped to be elected deputy, and to rise, under the 
auspices of Popinot, to the Council of State. 

“ To whom have I the honor of speaking?’’ he said, 
directing upon Madame Cibot his managerial glance. 

“ Monsieur, I am the confidential housekeeper of 
Monsieur Pons.” 

“ Ah, indeed ! And how is he, the dear fellow? ” 

“ 111, very ill, monsieur.” 

“ The devU ! I ’m deucedly sorry ; I ’ll go and see 
him, for he is one of those rare men — ” 

“Ah, yes, indeed, monsieur! a real cherub. I 
sometimes ask myself how such a man can belong to 
a theatre.” 

“ Madame, the theatre is a place for the improvement 
of morals,” said Gaudissard. “Poor Pons! there’s 
a model man ! and such talent ! When do you think he 
can get back to his post? Fora theatre, unfortunately, 
is like a stage-coach, and starts, full or empty, at the 
regular hour. We may be as sorry as we like, but that 
won’t lead the music. Come, how is he really ? ” 

“ Alas ! my good monsieur,” said the Cibot, pulling 
out her handkerchief and putting it to her e 3 ^es, “ it is 
dreadful to have to say it, but I ’m afraid we ’ve got 
to lose him ; though we take care of him. Monsieur 
Schmucke and me, like the apple of our e^^e. And 
I ’ve even come to teU 3 "ou that you must n’t count no 
more on Monsieur Schmucke, who has got to sit up 
nights. We can’t help doing as if there was still a 
chance, and trying to tear the dear, good man from the 
jaws o’ death ; but the doctor has n’t no hope.” 


256 


Coudn Pon9, 


“ What is he dying of ? ” 

“ Grief and jaundice and the liver, and all complicated 
with family troubles.” 

“ And a doctor to boot ! ” cried Gaudissard. “ He 
ought to have employed our Doctor Lebrun ; it would 
not have cost him anything.” 

‘‘ Monsieur has a doctor like the good God himself. 
But what can a doctor do, talent or no talent, against 
such a lot o* causes ? 

“ 1 wanted those good old Nut-crackers for my new 
fairy-piece — ” 

“ Is it anything I can do for them?” said Madame 
Cibot, with an air worthy of Jocrisse. 

Gaudissard burst out laughing. 

“Monsieur, I’m their confidential housekeeper; 
there’s many things these gentlemen — ” 

As Gaudissard’s peals of laughter resounded through 
the room, a woman’s voice cried out, — 

“If you are laughing, old fellow, I suppose I can 
come in ? ” 

And the first danseuse made an irruption into the 
room and flung herself upon the only sofa that was in 
it. This was Heloise Brisetout, wrapped in a magnifi- 
cent scarf, called Algerine. 

“What are you laughing at? Is it at madame? 
What role does she want ? ” said the lady, flinging him 
one of those masonic glances from artist to artist which 
ought to be painted on canvas. 

Heloise, a highly literary young woman of much 
renown in Bohemia, intimate with the great artists, ele- 
gant, delicate, and graceful, possessed very much more 
mind than usually belongs to a leading ballet-dancer. 


Cousin Pons. 


257 


As she asked her questions she inhaled the pungent 
perfume of a vinaigrette. 

“ Madame, all women are equal when they *re hand- 
some ; and if I don’t sniff at a nasty scent-bottle, or 
plaster a lot o’ brick-dust on my cheeks — ” 

“ With what Nature has put there already you ’d be 
supersaturated, my child,” said H^loise, winking at the 
director. 

“I’m an honest woman — ” 

“ So much the worse for you,” said H^loise. “ It 
isn’t ever}^ woman who can be well kept; but I am, 
madame, and devilishly well too ! ” 

“ What do you mean, ‘ so much the worse ’ ? It is 
very fine for you to have Algerine scarfs round your 
neck and to give yourself airs,” said the Cibot ; “ but 
you ’ve never had half the declarations o’ love that I ’ve 
had, ma’am ! You could n’t hold a candle to the beau- 
tiful oyster-girl of the Cadran-Bleu — ” 

The dancer jumped up suddenly, presented arms, and 
touched her forehead with the back of her right hand, 
like a soldier saluting his general. 

“ What ! ” cried Gaudissard, “ are you that beautiful 
oyster-woman my father used to tell me about?” 

“ If that ’s the case, madame can’t know either the 
cachuca or the polka; madame must be over fifty 
years old ! ” said Helo'ise. “ Then — ” Here the dan- 
seuse struck an attitude and declaimed the line, — 

** ‘Be we friends, Cinnal ’ ” 

“ Come, Helo'ise, madame is no match for you ; let 
her alone ! ” 


17 


258 


Cousin Pons, 


“Ah! is madame the nouveUe Helcfisef'' said the 
Cibot with a mock simplicity that was full of satire. 

“ Pretty good, my old woman ! ” cried Gaudissard. 

“That’s been said a hundred times; the joke’s 
preadamite ! Find something better, old lady, or take 
a cigarette.” 

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Madame Cibot; “I’m 
too sad to keep on answering you. My two gentlemen 
are very ill, and I ’ve pawned everjthing I ’ve got, 
even my husband’s coats, to feed ’em and save ’em 
from worreting. Here, you may see the tickets.” 

“Ha! the farce is turning into drama,” cried the 
beautiful Heloise ; “let ’s hear about it.” 

“ Madame tumbles from the clouds,” said the Cibot, 
ulike — ” 

“ — like a leading fairy,” said Heloise. “ I ’ll 
prompt you ; go on, medeme,** 

“Come, I’m in a hurry,” said Gaudissard; “no 
more nonsense I Heloise, madame is the housekeeper 
of our poor leader of the orchestra, who is djdng. She 
has come to say I must not depend on him any longer ; 
I am in a tight place.” 

“ Ah, poor man ! well, we must give him a benefit.” 

“ That would ruin him,” said Gaudissard. “ The 
next da}" the hospitals would come down on him for 
five hundred francs ; they never believe in any wants 
except their own. No, no. Look here, my good 
woman, since you are evidently running for the prix 
Monty on — ” Gaudissard rang a bell ; the valet in- 
stantly entered. Tell the cashier to send me a bank- 
bill of a thousand francs. Sit down, madame.” 

“Ah, poor woman! — There, she’s crying!” ex- 


Cousin Pons. 


259 


claimed the ballet-dancer. “How dismal! Come, 
mother, cheer up ; we ’ll all go and see him I Look 
here, old fellow,” she went on, drawing Gaudissard into 
a corner, you want to make me play Ariadne. You 
are going to marry, and you know I can make you 
miserable — ” 

“ Heloise, I have got a heart like a frigate, — copper- 
bottomed.” 

“ I ’ll produce children of yours ! I ’ll borrow some.” 

“ I have openly declared our attachment.” 

“ Come, be a good fellow, and give Pons’s situation 
to Garangeot, — the lad has talent, but he has n’t a six- 
pence, — do that, and I ’ll promise to keep quiet.” 

“But wait till Pons is dead; the worthy soul may 
come to life again.” 

“Oh! as for that, no, monsieur,” said the Cibot; 
“ since last evening he ’s been out of his head, delirious. 
Unfortunate!}' , it ’ll soon be all over.” 

“ Anyhow, put Garangeot in pro said Heloise ; 

“ he has got the whole Press on his side.” 

At this moment the cashier entered, holding in his 
hand two notes of five hundred francs each. 

“ Give them to madame,” said Gaudissard. “ Adieu, 
my good woman ! Take care of the dear man, and tell 
him I ’ll go and see him to-morrow, or the day after, — 
or at any rate as soon as I can.” 

“You’ve got so many irons in the fire,” remarked 
Heloise. 

“ Ah ! monsieur,” cried the Cibot, “ hearts like yours 
ain’t nowhere except in a theatre. May God bless you ! ” 

“To whose account am I to put that?” asked the 
cashier. 


260 


Cousin Pons, 


“ I ’ll draw a cheque, and you are to charge the sum 
to the gratuity account.” 

Before leaving the room Madame Cibot made an 
elaborate courtesy to the ballet-dancer, and overheard a 
question which Gaudissard put to his late mistress. 

“Is Garangeot capable of getting up the music for 
the ballet of the Mohicans in ten days ? If he can pull 
me out of that scrape, he shall have the old man’s 
place.” 

Madame Cibot, better paid for the harm she had done 
than she would ever have been for her good actions, 
pocketed the thousand francs and the sums paid for the 
lessons of the two friends, thus depriving them of all 
means of existence in the event of Pons recovering his 
health. By this perfidy she expected to bring about a 
much-desired result, — the necessity of selling the pict- 
ures so coveted by £lie Magus. To contrive this first 
abstraction, the Cibot had to throw dust in the ej^es of 
the terrible associate she had taken to her arms, the 
barrister Fraisier, and also to make sure of the entire 
discretion of ^lie Magus and Remonencq. 

As to the Auvergnat, he had been brought b}’ degrees 
under the dominion of a passion such as men of no 
education conceive when they come to Paris from the 
depths of the provinces, with fixed ideas born of the 
isolation of country life, full of the ignorance of 
primitive natures, and the savage desires which make 
the framework of fixed ideas. The virile beauty of 
Madame Cibot, her vivacity, and her coarse wit, had 
long attracted the Auvergnat, who wished to carry 
her off from Cibot and make her his concubine, — a 
species of bigamy which is much more common in Paris 


Cousin Pons, 


261 


among the lower classes than people think for. But 
avarice is a running noose which tightens more and 
more around the heart, and ends by stifling the reason. 
Kemonencq, when he valued the payment to Madame 
Cibot from himself and Elie Magus at forty thousand 
francs, passed from illicit intentions to crime, and longed 
to make her his legitimate wife. This love, which was 
pure speculation, brought him, as he dreamed the long 
dreams of a smoker, leaning against the lintel of his shop- 
door, to wish for the death of the little tailor. He saw 
that in this way he could almost triple his capital, and 
thought what an excellent saleswoman the Cibot would 
be, and what a fine figure she would cut in a splendid 
shop on the boulevard. The two desires intoxicated 
him. In his dreams he hired a shop on the boulevard 
de la Madeleine, and filled it with the choicest curiosities 
of the defunct Pons ; he slept on cloth of gold, and saw 
millions floating upward in the blue fumes of his pipe. 
And then he woke up face to face with the little tailor, 
who was always sweeping out the court3^ard, the doorwa}’, 
and the street when the Auvergnat was opening his shop 
and setting out his wares ; for since the illness of Pons, 
Cibot did his wife’s household work. Remonencq came 
to consider the sallow, stunted, copper-colored little 
tailor as the sole obstacle to his prosperity ; and he 
asked himself how he could get rid of him. Madame 
Cibot was very proud of this growing passion on the 
part of Remonencq, for she had reached the age 
when women at last understand that they are growing 
old. 

One morning the Cibot, on getting up, looked reflec- 
tively at Remonencq, who was arranging the odds and 


262 


Cousin Pons. 


ends in his shop-window, and she resolved to find out 
to what lengths his love would cany him. 

“Well!” said the Auvergnat, coming toward her, 
“ are things going as 3’Ou wish?” 

“ It ’s 3"ou I’m troubled about,” returned the Cibot. 
“You compromise me ; all the neighbors can see you 
making sheep’s-eyes at me.” 

She left her own door and went into the depths of the 
Auvergnat’s shop. 

“ What an idea ! ” said Remonencq. 

“Come here; I want to speak to 3^,” she said. 
“ The heirs of Monsieur Pons are bestirring themselves, 
and they’re likely to give us trouble. God knows 
what ’ll happen if they send law3"ers to stick their noses 
into things, like a setter-dog. I won’t persuade Mon- 
sieur Schmucke to sell a few pictures unless 3’ou ’ll 
promise me to keep the secret — ay I keep it so that 
with 3"our head on the block 3-ou won’t tell neither 
where the pictures came from, nor who sold ’em. Don’t 
3’ou see that when Monsieur Pons is safely dead and 
buried, nobod3' will be the wiser if there are onty fifty- 
three pictures instead of sixty-seven? Besides, if they 
are sold while the old man is living, no one can say 
nothing.” 

“ Well,” said Remonencq, “ it is aU the same to me ; 
but Monsieur Elie Magus wants the receipts regular.” 

“ You shall have your receipts, bless 3^ou ! Do 3'ou 
suppose I ’m going to write ’em ? Not I ; it ’ll be Mon- 
sieur Schmucke. But 3'ou must tell 3^our Jew that he 
is to be as silent as you are,” she added. 

“ We ’ll be as mute as fishes ; silence is in our line. 
As for me, I know how to read, but I can’t write ; and 


Cousin Pons, 


263 


that’s why I want a wife clever and educated like 
you. I, who am always laying by for old age, I 
want some little Remonencqs. Come, you leave your 
Cibot ! ” 

“ Here comes your Jew ! ” said the woman ; “ now we 
can settle matters.” 

“ Well, my good lady,” said 6lie Magus, who called 
very early in the morning of every third day, to know 
when he could have the pictures, “ how are matters 
going?” 

“ Hain’t no one been to speak to you about Monsieur 
Pons and his gimcracks ? ” demanded the Cibot. 

“ I have received a letter from a lawyer,” answered 
6lie Magus. “ He seemed to be one of those busy- 
bodies ferreting for business, and I distrust such people ; 
so I did not answer him. At the end of three da3'S he 
came to see me, and left his card ; I told m}- concierge 
to say I was out whenever he came again.” 

“ You’re a jewel of a Jew ! ” said the Cibot, who was 
unaware of the old man’s caution. “ Well, my lads, 
in a few daj^s I ’ll have brought Monsieur Schmucke to 
sell you six or eight o’ them pictures, ten at the most ; 
but on two conditions, — first, absolute secrecy. No 
matter what happens, I ’m not to appear in the busi- 
ness. It is to be Monsieur Schmucke who sends for 
you ; mind that. And it is Monsieur Remonencq who 
proposed to Monsieur Schmucke to let j^ou have them. 
I ain’t to have nothing to do with it. You are to pay 
forty-six thousand francs for the four pictures.” 

“ I agree,” said the Jew, with a sigh. 

“Very good,” said Madame Cibot. “The second 
condition is, that 3’ou are to give me forty- three thou- 


264 


Comin Pons, 


sand francs, and buy the pictures with the other three 
thousand from Monsieur Schmucke : Remonencq can 
buy four for two thousand francs, and pa}^ me the sur- 
plus. Now, you see, my dear Monsieur Magus, that 
I ’ve thrown a mighty good thing in your way, — in 
3"ours and Remonencq’s, — on condition of sharing the 
profits between us. I’ll take you to a lawyer, or the 
lawj^er can come here. You’ll estimate the value of 
all there is in the collection at the prices you are able 
to give, so that Monsieur Fraisier may know the value 
of what the old man has to leave. Only he must not 
come here before this first sale. You understand? ” 

“That’s understood,” said the Jew; “but it will 
take time to examine the things and set a price on 
them.” 

“You shall have a whole half-day. I ’ll manage it ; 
that ’s my affkir. Talk the matter over between j’our- 
selves, my lads, and day after to-morrow the thing 
shall be done. I ’ll go and talk to that Fraisier, for he 
knows what ’s going on here through his friend Doctor 
Poulain, and it ’ll be mighty hard to keep the rascal 
quiet.” 

Half way between the rue de Normandie and the rue 
de la Perle Madame Cibot met Fraisier, who was on 
his way to see her, so anxious was he to get at what he 
called the ‘‘ elements ” of the afifair. 

“ I wasi going to your house,” he said. 

Fraisier complained that Elie Magus would not see 
him ; but the Cibot dispersed his passing gleam of 
suspicion by assuring him that Magus had only 
just got back from a long journey, and that she would 
arrange an interview in Pons’s appartement the day 


Cousin Pons, 


265 


but one following, for the purpose of valuing the 
collection. 

“Deal openly with me,” answered Fraisier; “it is 
more than likely that I shall be employed by the heirs 
of Monsieur Pons. In that position I shall be much 
better able to serve you.” 

The words were said so incisively that the Cibot 
trembled. This starveling man of law, she felt, was 
manoeuvring on his side as she was manoeuvring on 
hers ; and she resolved to hasten the sale of the pic- 
tures. She was not far wrong in her conjecture. The 
lawyer and the doctor had clubbed together to buy a 
new suit of clothes for Fraisier, so that he might pre- 
sent himself decently dressed before Madame Camusot 
de Marville. The time required to make the suit was 
the sole reason why that interview, on which hung the 
fate of the two friends, had been delayed. After his 
visit to Madame Cibot, Fraisier intended to go to the 
tailor’s and try on the coat, waistcoat, and trousers ; he 
found those habiliments finished and ready for use. 
When he reached home he put on a new wig, and 
started at ten o’clock in the morning, in a hired cab- 
riolet, for the rue de Hanovre, hoping to obtain an in- 
terview with Madame de Marville. 

Fraisier in a white cravat, yeUow gloves, a new wig, 
and perfumed with eau-de-portugal, strongly reminded 
one of certain poisons kept in crystal bottles, the stop- 
pers held down by white kid, whose labels and all else, 
even the thread around the kid, though tasteful in 
appearance, only add to one’s sense of danger. His 
peremptory manner, his blotched face, his cutaneous 
malady, his greenish eyes, his general savor of wicked- 


266 


Cousin Pons. 


ness, caught the eye like clouds on a blue sky. In his 
study, as he had appeared to Madame Cibot, he was 
but the vulgar knife with which an assassin commits a 
crime ; here, at the door of Madame de Marville, he 
was the elegant poniard a young woman hides in her 
robe. 


Cousin Pons. 


267 


XXI. 

FRAISIER IN FLOWER. 

A GREAT change had taken place in the rue de Hano- 
vre. The Vicomte and Vicomtesse Popinot and the 
late minister and his wife were unwilling that Mon- 
sieur and Madame de Marville should remove into hired 
appartements and leave the house they had given up 
to their daughter as part of her dot. The president and 
his wife had accordingly gone up to the second floor, 
now left vacant by the removal of the old lady its late 
tenant to end her days in the country. Madame de 
Marville, who retained Madeleine Vivet, the cook, and 
the footman, had recovered from the vexation caused by 
the change, — a vexation somewhat lessened by the pos- 
session of a suite of rooms worth four thousand francs 
a year, and an unembarrassed income of ten thousand 
more. This aurea mediocritas., however, seemed al- 
ready insufficient to Madame de Marville, who wished 
her fortune to match her ambition. But the cession of 
all their property for the sake of marrying their daughter 
had entailed the loss of the president’s vested rights of 
election. Now, Amelie de Marville was determined to 
make her husband a deputy ; for she never abandoned 
her plans willingly, arid she still did not despair of 
getting him elected from the arrondissement in which 
Marville is situated. For the last two months, there- 


268 


Cousin Pons» 


fore, she had tormented her father-in-law, now Baron 
Camusot (for the newly created peer of France had 
been made a baron) , to get him to advance a hundred 
thousand francs on her husband’s inheritance, for the 
purpose, she said, of buying a small domain adjoining 
that of Marville, which jielded a rental of about two 
thousand francs. She and her husband could live 
there, near their children, and the boundaries of the 
Marville estate would be improved and eventually ex- 
tended by this purchase. Madame de Marville urged 
upon her father-in-law the deprivations she was com- 
pelled to endure for the sake of marrying Cecile to the 
Vicomte Popinot, and asked him if he wished to block 
the way for his eldest son to reach the highest honors 
in the state, which were now granted only to a powerful 
parliamentary position, — a position her husband would 
know how to obtain, if elected to the Chamber, by mak- 
ing himself feared by the ministry. 

“Those gentry grant nothing unless you twist their 
cravats about their necks till their tongues hang out,” 
she said. “ They are all ungrateful. They owe every- 
thing to Camusot. By enforcing the July laws, Camu- 
sot brought about the elevation of the Orleans family.” 

The old man put her off on the ground that he was 
involved in railways beyond his present means ; and 
he postponed the donation — of which, however, he ad- 
mitted the necessity — until an expected rise in stocks 
should occur. 

This half-promise, extorted a few days earlier than 
the particular time of which we write, had plunged 
Madame de Marville into much vexation of spirit. It 
was now doubtful whether the ex-owner of Marville 


Cousin Pons, 


269 


could be in a condition for election when the new 
Chamber was formed, as it required one year’s owner- 
ship of property. 

Fraisier succeeded without difficulty in seeing Made- 
leine Vivet. The two viperous natures recognized at 
sight their egress from the same egg. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said Fraisier, with specious mild- 
ness, ‘ ‘ I should like to obtain a few moments’ inter^new 
with Madame de Marville on a personal matter which 
concerns her property. Tell her it is a question of 
inheritance. I have not the honor to be known to her, 
therefore my name will carry no weight. I am not in 
the habit of attending to business affairs outside of m}^ 
office ; but I know Madame de Marville’s claims to con- 
sideration, and I have taken the trouble to come my- 
self — all the more because the subject does not allow 
of the least delay.” 

The matter thus broached, then repeated and ampli- 
fied by the waiting-maid, naturally produced a favor- 
able answer. The moment was a decisive one for 
Fraisier’s two ambitions. Therefore, in spite of the 
intrepidity of the little provincial lawyer, pugnacious, 
bitter, and incisive as he was, he felt as all great cap- 
tains feel at the opening of a battle on which the suc- 
cess of the campaign depends. As he entered Amelie’s 
salon he had what no sudorific, however powerful it 
might be, was able to produce upon the pores of his 
skin, choked and palsied as it was with direful diseases, 
— a cold sweat upon his back and forehead. 

“Ah!” he thought, “even if I don’t make my for- 
tune, my life is saved ; for Poulain told me I should 
get my health the moment perspiration set in — 


270 


Cousin Pons. 


Madame,” he said, seeing Amelie, who came forward 
in a loose morning-dress. Fraisier stopped short to 
bow with that extreme subserviency which, when em- 
ployed towards government oflScials, or their families, 
is intended as a recognition of the superior qualities of 
the persons addressed. 

“ Sit down, monsieur,” said Madame de Marville, 
perceiving at once that he belonged to the regions of 
the law. 

“ Madame, if I take the liberty to address you on a 
matter which concerns the interests of Monsieur le 
president, it is because I feel certain that, in his high 
position, he is likely to let things take their chance, 
and thus lose seven or eight hundred thousand francs, — 
a sum which ladies, who in my opinion know more about 
private business affairs than judges and public men, are 
not so ready to despise.” 

“You mentioned an inheritance,” said Amelie, inter- 
rupting him. 

Dazzled by the sum named, and wishing to hide 
her astonishment and her delight, she imitated the 
readers of novels, and looked over to the end of the 
'^ale. 

“ Yes, madame, an inheritance at present lost to 
you ; I may say wholly lost ; but which I can, — which 
I am ready to recover for you — ” 

“ Go on, monsieur,” said Madame de Marville, coldly 
measuring Fraisier with a sagacious eye. 

“Madame, I know your eminent talents. I myself 
come from Mantes. Monsieur Leboeuf, the president 
of the courts. Monsieur de Marville’s friend, can give 
you information about me — ” 


Cousin Pons. 


271 


Madame de Marville shrugged her shoulders with 
such cruel significance that Fraisier was compelled to 
open and shut a parenthesis instantly, in the very 
beginning of his discourse. 

“ A woman as distinguished as yourself will at once 
understand why I speak to you in the first instance of 
myself. It is the shortest wa}" to secure your inheri- 
tance.” 

Madame de Marville replied to this crafty remark by 
a gesture only, and kept silence. 

“Madame,” continued Fraisier, encouraged b}" the 
gesture to relate his history, “I was a barrister at 
Mantes. My practice cost my whole fortune ; for I 
bought that of Monsieur Levroux, whom you doubtless 
know — ” 

Madame de Marville bowed her head. 

“With a certain sum that was lent to me, and about 
ten thousand francs of my own, I had just left the em- 
ploy of Desroches, one of the ablest lawyers in Paris, 
with whom I had been head-clerk for six years. I 
had the misfortune to displease the procureur-du-roi 
at Mantes — ” 

“ Olivier Vinet?” 

“Yes, madame ; the son of the procureur-general. 
He was courting a little woman — ” 

“He!” 

“ Madame Vatinelle.” 

“Ah! Madame Vatinelle. She was very pretty, 
and very — well known.” 

“ She was intimate with me ; inde iroe^^ returned 
Fraisier. “ I was young and active ; I wanted to pay 
off my loan and marry. I had to get business, and I 


272 


Cousin Pons, 


looked about for it; I soon brewed more for myself 
than all the other law-oflScials put together. Of course 
they were one and all against me, the barristers of 
Mantes and the notaries, even the sheriffs* officers. 
They picked quarrels with me. You know \ery well, 
madame, that in our vile business when they want to 
destroy a man it is soon done. They caught me as 
attorney for both sides of a case. That is rather sharp 
practice, I admit; but in certain cases it is done in 
Paris, where lawyers play into each others’ hands. It 
is not done at Mantes. Monsieur Bouyonnet, — for 
whom I had previously done the same little kindness, 
— instigated by his associates and encouraged by 
the procureur-du~roiy betrayed me. You see I hide 
nothing from you. Well, there was a general hue-and- 
cry. I was a scoundrel; they made me out blacker 
than Marat ! They forced me to sell my practice, and 
I lost everything. I came to Paris, where I have tried 
to get clients ; but my wretched health only enables me 
to work two good hours out of the twentj’-four. To- 
day I am reduced to one ambition, and it is a paltry 
one. You will some day be the wife of the Keeper of 
the Seals, or perhaps the Chief-justice ; but I, poor and 
feeble, have no other wish than to get some situation 
in which I may end my days, some post where there 
is no rise, where I can simply vegetate. I want to 
be juge-de-paix in Paris. It would be a mere trifle 
for you and Monsieur le president to obtain for me ; 
for you doubtless render the present Keeper of the 
Seals so uneasy in his situation that he would be glad 
to oblige you. But that’s not all,” added Fraisier, 
seeing that Madame de Marville was about to speak, 


Cousin Pons, 


273 


and stopping her by a gesture. “ I have a friend, who 
is the physician of the old man whose property you and 
the president ought to inherit. Now you see what I 
am coming to. This doctor, whose co-operation is in- 
dispensable, is in the same situation as that in which 
you see me, — a great deal of ability, and no luck ! It is 
through him I heard that your interests were in danger ; 
for at this very moment, as I am speaking to you, all 
may be over, and the will which disinherits you and 
Monsieur le president may be made. This doctor is 
anxious to be appointed surgeon-in-chief of a hospital, 
or of one of the royal medical colleges. In short, you 
understand, he must have a situation in Paris the 
equivalent of mine. Pardon me if I speak frankly of 
these delicate matters ; but this affair will not admit 
of the slightest ambiguity. This doctor is moreover a 
man who is well thought of. He saved the life of Mon- 
sieur Pillerault, the great-uncle of your son-in-law, 
Monsieur le Vicomte Popinot. Now, if you will have 
the goodness to promise me these two places, — juge- 
de-paix for myself, and a medical sinecure for my 
friend, — I undertake to hand you over your inheritance 
almost intact. I say ‘ almost intact ’ because it will be 
saddled with a few obligations which we must be under 
to the legatee and to certain persons whose assistance 
is positively indispensable. You need not fulful your 
promises until after I have fulfilled mine.” 

Madame de Marville, who during the last few mo- 
ments had crossed her arms, like a person compelled 
to listen to a sermon, now uncrossed them, looked at 
Fraisier, and said, — 

“ Monsieur, you have the merit of making perfectly 

13 


274 


Cousin Pons. 


clear all that you have to say about your own affairs ; 
but as to mine you are extremely ambiguous — ” 

“ Two words will suffice to enlighten you, madame,” 
returned Fraisier. “ Monsieur le president is the sole 
heir, in the third degree of consanguinity, to Monsieur 
Pons. Monsieur Pons is very ill, and about to make 
his will, if he has not already made it, in favor of a 
German, his friend, named Schmucke ; and the value 
of the property is more than seven hundred thousand 
francs. In three days I hope to have an exact esti- 
mate of the amount.” 

“If that is so,” she said, half aloud, thunderstruck 
at the possibility of such an inheritance, “ what a mis- 
take I made in quarrelling with him and driving him 
away ! ” 

“ No, madame ; for if it were not for that rupture, he 
would still be as lively as a cricket, and would probably 
outlive you. Providence has its own ways, and we 
need not look too closely into them.” He added, as 
if to disguise the odious thought, “But we business 
agents, you know, must look at things as the}^ are. You 
understand now, madame, that in the high position 
Monsieur de Marville occupies he would do nothing — 
indeed he could do nothing — in the present condition 
of the affair. He has quarrelled mortally with his 
cousin ; you yourself no longer see Pons ; you have 
banished him from your roof, — no doubt you had excel- 
lent reasons for doing so, — the old man is now ill, and 
bequeaths his property to his only friend. A president 
of the Cour-royale can have nothing to say against 
a will made under such circumstances. But between 
ourselves, madame, it is very disagreeable when we 


Cousin Pons, 


275 


have a right to an inheritance of seven or eight hun- 
dred thousand francs — in fact, it may be over a million 
— to see it taken from under our very nose, and not 
attempt to get it back. Only, if we make the attempt 
we must touch pitch and meddle with dirty intrigues. 
It is a difficult and ticklish thing to manage, and we 
shall have to rub shoulders with common people, — 
servants and underlings, — and rub them closeh’ and 
secretl}^ too, so that no lawyer or notary in Paris can 
get wind of it. You need a barrister without a brief, 
like myself, whose abilities are genuine and earnest, 
whose devotion is secured, and whose position, unhap- 
pily precarious, is on a level with that of such people. 
My business takes me among the lesser tradespeople, the 
workmen, and the laboring classes of my arrondissement. 
Yes, madame, that is the position to which I have 
been reduced by the enmity of the procureur-du~roi 
at Mantes, — a man who could not forgive my superiority. 
I know you well, madame, I know the solid strength 
of your protection, and I see that by rendering you 
this service I shall reach the end of my own misfor- 
tunes and secure the triumph of my friend Doctor 
Poulain.” 

Madame de Marville remained thoughtful. It was a 
moment of frightful agony to Fraisier. Vinet, pro- 
cureur-gmiral^ — now one of the orators of the Centre, 
constantly pointed out as a future chancellor, — the 
father of the procureur-du-roi at Mantes, was the an- 
tagonist of this relentless woman. The haughty official 
made no pretence of hiding his contempt for president 
Camusot. Fraisier was ignorant of this circumstance 
however. 


276 


Cousin Pons. 


“ Have you nothing else upon your conscience than 
the act of being the attorney on both sides?” asked 
Madame de Marville, looking fixedly at Fraisier. 

“ Madame may ask Monsieur Leboeuf about me. 
Monsieur Leboeuf was on my side.” 

“Are 3’ou sure that Monsieur Leboeuf would speak 
well of you to Monsieur de Marville and Monsieur le 
comte Popinot?” 

“I’ll answer for it, especially as Monsieur Olivier 
Vinet is no longer at Mantes ; for, between ourselves, 
that little magistrate kept the good Leboeuf in perpetual 
awe of him. Moreover, madame, if you wish it, I will 
go to Mantes and see Monsieur Leboeuf myself. It 
will cause no delay, for I can’t ascertain the exact 
value of the property for two or three days. I wish — 
in fact I must conceal from madame some of the wires 
I have to pull in this aflair. But will she not regard 
the price which I ask for my devotion as a pledge of 
success ? ” 

“ Well, make Monsieur Leboeuf willing to answer for 
you, and if the property is as large as you sa}" it is 
(which I doubt), I will promise you the two places, — 
provided you succeed, of course.” 

“ I will answer for our success, madame, — only you 
must have the kindness to send for your notary" and 
your attorne}’ whenever I need their assistance. They 
must give me a power-of-attorney to act for Monsieur 
le president, and you must tell these gentlemen to fol- 
low my instructions and to take no steps without my 
consent.” 

“ You have the responsibility,” said Madame de Mar- 
ville impressively, “ and you ought to have full powers. 


Cousin Pons, 277 

But,” she added, smiling, “is Monsieur Pons so very 
ill?” 

“ Faith ! madame, he might recover, especially when 
cared for by so conscientious a man as Doctor Poulain ; 
for my friend, madame, is only an innocent spy whom I 
employ in your interests : he would be able to save the 
old man ; but there is another person near the patient, 
a housekeeper, who for thirty thousand francs is ready 
to push him into his grave ! She won’t kill him, she 
won’t give him arsenic : she wiU do nothing so chari- 
table ; she will murder him morally, and drive him into 
a state of irritable excitement every day. The poor 
old fellow, if he were in an atmosphere of peace and 
silence, and were well cared for and kindly treated 
by friends, would recover. But worn to death by a 
Madame Evrard (in her youth one of the thirty hand- 
some oyster-women Paris has celebrated), who is grasp- 
ing, garrulous, and brutal, tormented by her to make 
a will in which she should have a handsome share, the 
poor creature is drifting fast and fatally into an indu- 
ration of the liver, — in fact, the calculi may be alread^^ 
forming, and an operation (which he can’t survive) will 
be necessary to remove them. The doctor — ah, he ’s a 
noble soul ! — is in a very painful position ; he ought 
to send away the woman — ” 

“ Such a Megaera is a monster ! ” exclaimed Madame 
de Marville in her fluty little voice. 

This vocal likeness between himself and the terrible 
woman made Fraisier smile inwardly ; for he knew very 
well what to think of such soft, hypocritical modula- 
tions of a voice that was naturally shrill. He recalled 
A certain oflScial, the hero of a tale in the days of 


278 


Cousin Pons, 


Louis XI. whom that monarch put an end to by a si^n* 
manual. This magistrate, blessed with a wife modelled 
after that of Socrates, but himself without the inward 
philosophy of that great man, ordered salt to be strewn 
on the oats of his horses and forbade that they should 
be allowed any water. When the wife was driving to 
her country-house along the banks of the Seine the 
horses rushed into the river to drink, carrying her with 
them ; and the magistrate thanked Providence who had 
thus released him from his torment by natural means. 
At this moment Madame de Marville was thanking God 
for having placed beside Pons a woman who would re- 
lieve her of him — honestly! 

“ I would not accept a million,” she said, “ at the 
price of an impropriety. Your friend ought to warn 
Monsieur Pons and have the woman sent away.” 

“In the first place, madame, Messieurs Pons and 
Schmucke think the woman an angel, and they would 
only send away my friend. Then that atrocious oyster- 
woman has been the doctor’s benefactress : she intro- 
duced him to Monsieur Pillerault. He tells her to show 
the utmost gentleness to the patient ; but that advice 
only shows the wretched creature how to make the ill- 
ness worse.” 

“ What does your friend think of my cousin’s state? ” 
asked Madame de Marville. 

Fraisier made the woman tremble by his explicit an- 
swer and the clear-sightedness with which he Ipoked into 
her heart, — a heart as rapacious as Madame Cibot’s. 

“ In six weeks the property will be divided.” 

“ Poor man 1 ” she said, trying, but in vain, to look 
sad. 


Cousin Pons, 279 

“ Has madame any message to send to Monsieur 
Leboeuf ? I shall take the train to Mantes.” 

“ Yes. Wait a few moments, and I will write and 
invite him to dine with us to-morrow. I wish to see 
him and arrange some plan by which the injustice you 
have suffered may be repaired.” 

When Madame de Marville had left him, Fraisier, 
who saw himself juge~de~paix^ was no longer the same 
man : he swelled out ; his lungs drew in full draughts 
of the air of happiness and the wind of success. Dip- 
ping from the unfathomed reservoir of the will fresh 
and powerful doses of that divine essence, he felt him- 
self, like Remonencq, capable of a crime to insure suc- 
cess, provided no proof of it remained. He had boldly 
faced Madame de Marville, turning conjectures into cer- 
tainties, affirming this and that as it suited him, with 
the sole purpose of compelling her to employ him to ob- 
tain the property for her, and thus secure her protection 
and influence. The representative of two lives of in- 
tense poverty, two cravings not less intense, he kicked 
away with disdainful foot his horrible home in the rue 
de la Perle. He fingered prospectively three thousand 
francs in fees from Madame Cibot, and five thousand 
more from Madame de Marville. That meant the acqui- 
sition of a suitable appartement. Moreover, he could 
pay ofl* his debt to Doctor Poulain. There are certain 
malignant natures, bitter, and disposed to wickedness 
by sufferings or disease, which, nevertheless, experi- 
ence feelings of an opposite nature, and to an equally 
intense degree. Richelieu was a good friend, though a 
cruel enemy. Fraisier would have let himself be hacked 
in pieces for Doctor Poulain, in gratitude for the sue- 


'280 


Cousin Pons. 


cor he had received from him. Madame de Marvillej 
returning with a letter in her hand, watched for a 
moment, without being seen herself, the man who was 
dreaming of a happy and well-provided life, and thought 
him less ugly than when she first glanced at him : be- 
sides, he was about to be useful to her ; and we look at 
a tool of our own with another eye to that with which 
we look at a neighbor’s. 

“ Monsieur Fraisier,” she said, ‘^you have shown me 
that you are a man of intelligence, and I think you 
capable of plain speaking.” 

Fraisier made an eloquent gesture. 

“Well,” she continued, “I summon you to answer 
candidly one question : Will Monsieur de Marville or 
myself be compromised by any of your proceedings ? ” 

“ I should not have sought you out, madame, if I 
expected to reproach myself some day for flinging mud 
upon you, were it only a speck as big as a pin’s head, 
for on you the spot would seem as large as the moon. 
You forget, madame, that to become, by j^our means, 
juge-de-paix., I must make sure that you are satisfied. 
I received, early in life, too severe a lesson to risk 
another such thrashing. And now, madame, one last 
word. Every step I take which concerns j^ou shall be 
submitted to you in the first instance.” 

“ Very good. Here is my letter to Monsieur 
Leboeuf. I shall expect to hear the exact value of the 
property.” 

“ That ’s the gist of the whole matter,” said Fraisier, 
astutely, bowing to Madame de Marville with as much 
grace as his native ugliness allowed him to show. 

“ What a godsend 1 ” thought Madame de Marville ; 


Cousin Pons, 


281 


ah, I shall he rich ! Camusot can be a deputy ; for 
if we start this Fraisier in the arrondissement of Bolbec 
he can get us a majority. What a tool ! ” 

“How providential!’^ thought Fraisier, as he de- 
scended the staircase. “What a deep and daring 
woman that is ! I ’d like a wife of that kind. And 
now to work I ” 

And he departed for Mantes, where he was pledged 
to obtain the good word of a man he knew but little. 
He counted, however, on Madame Vatinelle ; for the 
wrongs of love are often like the protested notes of a 
solvent debtor, — they bear interest. 


282 


Cousin Pons. 


XXII. 


ADVICE TO OLD BACHELORS. 

Three days later, while Schmucke slept, — for Ma- 
dame Cibot and the old pianist had already divided the 
duty of nursing and watching the patient, — the Cibot 
had what she called a “ set-to’' with poor Pons. It 
may be as well to call attention to a sad peculiarity in 
cases of hepatitis Invalids whose livers are more or 
less affected are inclined to be impatient and to get 
angry ; such anger relieves them for the time being, and 
even, under the stimulus of fever, occasionally brings 
out unnatural strength. The excitement once over, 
however, the reaction — or “ collapse,” as the doctors 
call it — sets in, and the loss of vital power in the or- 
ganism is evident in all its gravity. Thus in liver- 
diseases, more especially in those resulting from severe 
grief, the patient falls into a state of weakness after 
such excitements, which is all the more dangerous 
because he has been necessarily subjected to a low diet. 
It is, in fact, a fever which fastens upon the tempera- 
ment of a man, and is neither in the blood nor in the 
brain. This excitability of the whole being produces 
melancholy, and the patient takes a dislike even to 
himself. In such a condition, the least thing will cause 
dangerous irritation. Madame Gibot, in spite of the 
doctor’s warnings, did not believe — she, a woman of 
the people, without experience or education — in any 


Cousin Pons, 


283 


such straining of the nervous system under the exacer- 
bations of temperament. The cautions of Doctor Pou- 
lain were to her nothing more than “doctors’ talk.” 
She was detennined, like all women of the lower classes, 
to feed Pons her own wa}^ and she was only prevented 
from secretly giving him a slice of ham, a good omelet, 
or vanilla chocolate, by the peremptory order of Doc- 
tor Poulain, — 

“ Give him a single mouthful of anything, no matter 
what, and it will kill him like a pistol-shot.” 

The obstinacy of the lower classes is so great in this 
respect that a chief cause of their repugnance to go 
to a hospital is that they believe persons are killed there 
by want of food. The mortality caused by women who 
take food privately to their husbands has been so great 
that physicians have now resolved to enforce a rigid 
personal search of the patients on the days when their 
relations come to see them. Madame Cibot, to bring 
about a momentary quarrel which was necessary to secure 
her immediate ends, related her visit to the theatre, not 
omitting an account of her “ set-to” with Mademoiselle 
Heloise, the ballet-dancer. 

“ But what did you go there for? ” asked the patient 
for the third time, wholly unable to stop the Cibot 
when she was once launched on a flood of words. 

“And so, when I’d given ’em a bit o’ my mind, 
Mademoiselle Heloise, who saw plain enough what I 
was, knocked under, and we ended the best friends in 
the world. And yet you ask me what I went there 
for?” she added, repeating Pons’s words. 

Certain gabblers, and they are gabblers of genius, 
catch up the questions, objections, and observations of 


284 


Cousin Pons. 


others as a species of aliment for their own discourse, — 
as if the natural flow could ever drj- up ! 

“ Why, I went there to get your Monsieur Gaudis- 
sard out of his scrape ; he wants music for his ballet, 
and you ain’t in no condition, my treasure, to scribble it 
on that paper o’ 3 ’ours, or go and lead that orchestra. 
I ’ve managed it so as they ’ve engaged one Monsieur 
Garangeot to make the music for the ‘ Mohicans ’ — ” 
“Garangeot!” cried Pons in a fury, “Garangeot, 
a man without any talent ! I would n’t even have him 
for a flrst violin! He is a man of a great deal of 
cleverness, and he writes very good feuilletons about 
music ; but 1 ’ll defy him to compose an air ! How the 
devil did you get the idea of going to the theatre ? ” 

“ Come, come, my precious, don’t boil over like a 
saucepan o’ milk! (The old demon, ain’t he as 
obstinate as a mule !) Can you write music in the state 
you ’re in? Why, you hain’t never looked at yourself in 
the glass. You ’re nothing but skin and bone ; you ’re 
as weak as a sparrow : and d’ ye think you ’re flt to 
write your kind o’ figures when you can’t even write 
mine ? — That reminds me I ought to go and see after 
the gentleman on the third floor, who owes us seventeen 
francs : ’t ain’t to be sneezed at ; for after I ’ve paid 
the apothecary there won’t be nothing but twent 3 ^ francs 
left. I had to tell it all to that man, who looks like 
a good fellow, that Gaudissard, — jolly name ! I like 
it, — he’s a regular Roger Bontemps that just suits me,. 
He won’t never have liver diseases. So, as I was say- 
ing, I had to tell him how you are, — gracious ! you 
know you ain’t well, — and so he ’s filled your place 
for the time being — ” 


Cousin Pons, 


285 


“Filled my place!” cried Pons in a thundering 
voice, sitting up in bed. 

As a general thing, sick men, and especially those 
within sweep of the scythe of Death, cling to their situ- 
ations with as strong a passion as they put, early in 
life, into winning them. To find his place filled was to 
the poor dying man a preliminary death. 

“ But the doctor tells me that I am doing very well,” 
he said, “ and that I shall soon get back to my usual 
life. You have killed me, ruined me, murdered me I ” 

“Ta, ta, ta, ta!” cried the Cibot. “There you 
go ! I’m your executioner, am I ? That ’s the kind o’ 
thing you tell Monsieur Schmucke behind my back. I 
know very well what you say ; you are an ungrateful 
monster ! ” 

“ But don’t you know that if I am only fifteen days be- 
hind time in getting well, they ’ll call me, when I do go 
back to the theatre, an old fogey, an old man ? They ’ll 
say I ’m past work, that I ’m Empire, an old wig, ro- 
coco ! ” cried the sick man, still eager to live. “ Garan- 
geot must have made himself friends in the theatre. He 
has lowered the pitch for some actress who has n’t a 
voice ; he has licked Monsieur Gaudissard’s boots ; he 
has got some friend of his to put pufls about them in 
the newspapers. In a concern like ours, Madame Cibot, 
they can pick a hole in any man’s coat. What demon 
sent you there ? ” 

“ My goodness ! Monsieur Schmucke talked it over 
with me for a week. What is it you want? You don’t 
think o’ nothing but yourself. You ’re so selfish, you ’d 
kill people who take care o’ you ! There ’s that poor 
Monsieur Schmucke, who ’s been dog-tired for a month : 


286 


Cousin Pons. 


he ’s that fagged-out he can’t go nowhere, nor do nothing, 
nor give lessons, nor go to the theatre ; and yet you 
won’t see it ! He takes care o’ you nights, and I take 
care o’ you days. If I was to sit up with you, as I did 
at first, thinking you would n’t want nothing, I ’d have 
to sleep all da}" ; and then who ’d look after the house- 
hold and make both ends meet, I ’d like to know ? Sick- 
ness is sickness, and that ’s all there is about it ! ” 

“It is impossible that Schmucke ever had such a 
thought ! ” 

“ Perhaps you ’ll say next that I trumped it up ! Do 
you think we are made of iron ? If Monsieur Schmucke 
had to go on with his work, and give six or eight lessons 
a day, and spend the evenings from half-past six to 
half-past eleven in the orchestra of your theatre, he ’d 
be dead in a week. Do you want to be the death o’ 
that worthy man, who ’d shed his blood for you ? By 
the mother that bore me, no one never saw such a 
patient as you are. What have you done with your 
common sense? has it gone to the pawnbrokers? We 
are all at our last gasp here for you, we do our very 
best ; and you ain’t satisfied. D ’ye want to drive us 
into a madhouse? As for me, I ’m done for.” 

The Cibot might talk as she pleased, anger kept 
Pons from saying a word ; he writhed in his bed, artic- 
ulating faint interjections, and seemed almost dead. 
As usual, when the quarrel reached this point, it turned 
suddenly to caresses. The nurse darted at the sick 
man, took his head, laid it on the pillow, forced him to 
lie quiet, and covered him over with the bedclothes. 

“Don’t put yourself in such a way!” she cried. 
“My poor cat, it’s all because you’re ill! Doctor 


Cousin Pons. 


287 


Poulain says so. Come, be quiet, my little man. You ’re 
the idol of everybody who comes near you : don’t the 
doctor himself come to see you twice a day ? What ’ll 
he say if he finds 3:ou in such a pother? You put me 
’most beside myself, you do ; it ain’t right. When 
you ’ve got Mam’ Cibot for a nurse, you ought to behave 
3"Ourself. Here you are talking and screaming! and 
that ’s forbidden ; you know it is. Talking irritates you. 
Now, what are you getting angr^" for? It ’s 3^ou who 
are to blame i, you are always nagging at me ! Come 
now, be reasonable ; if Monsieur Schmucke and I, 
whose bowels yearn over you, do what we think best, 
you ought to be satisfied. It ’s all right, my cherub ! ” 

“ Schmucke never told you to go to the theatre with- 
out consulting me.” 

“ Must I wake him up, the poor dear man, who’s 
sleeping like a top, and make him testify?” 

“No, no!” cried Pons. “If my dear, tender 
Schmucke resolved to do it, I must be worse than I 
think I am,” he added, casting a distressed and melan- 
chofy glance upon the objects of art which decorated 
his chamber. “ Must I bid farewell to my dear pictures, 
and to all these things that I had made m^’ friends, and 
to my own divine Schmucke ? Oh ! can it be ? ” 

Madame Cibot, cold-blooded actress that she was, put 
a handkerchief to her eyes. This mute repfy drove the 
sick man into a gloom}^ revery. Crushed by' these vital 
blows on parts so sensitive, — his social life and his phy- 
sical health, the loss of his situation and the prospect 
of death, — he collapsed suddenly, and no longer had 
the strength to be angry. He lay there, dejected and 
gloomy, like a consumptive at the point of death. 


288 


Cousin Pons. 


“ Now, don’t you see,” continued Madame Cibot, 
perceiving that her victim was completely broken down, 
“ don’t you see that for Monsieur Schmucke’s sake you 
ought to send for the notary of the quarter, Monsieur 
Trognon, a very worthy man?” 

“ You are always talking to me about that Trognon,” 
said the sick man. 

“ Oh ! I don’t care, him or another, — for all you ’ll 
leave to me ! ” 

She shook her head, as if to mark her contempt for 
riches. Silence reigned. 

Just at this moment Schmucke, who had slept for six 
hours, was roused by hunger, got up, and came into 
Pons’s room. He stood looking at him for several 
minutes without uttering a word, for Madame Cibot had 
put a finger on her lips as he came in. Then she rose, 
went close to the German, and whispered in his ear : 

“ Thank God, he ’s going to sleep ! He ’s as vicious 
as a red ass ! He fights his illness.” 

“ On the contrary, I am very patient,” said the poor 
victim in a piteous tone which revealed his extreme 
weakness. “But, my dear Schmucke, she has been to 
the theatre and had my place filled.” 

He paused, unable to say more. The Cibot profited 
by the interval to make a sign to Schmucke, signifying 
that Pons was out of his mind, and to whisper, — 

“ Don’t contradict him ; if you do, you ’ll kill him.” 

“And she declares you sent her,” continued Pons, 
looking at the honest German. 

“Yes, I tid,” said Schmucke heroically; “it vas 
nayceszar}’. Toan’d spick. Led us zave your laife. 
Id ees nonzenze to vork hart venn j^ou haf a draj^zure. 


Cousin Pons, 


289 


Gate veil ; ve vill zell zome prig-k-prag, and ent our 
tays in beace, mit our goot Matame Zipod.” 

“ She is deluding you ! ” answered Pons, sadly. 

Not seeing Madame Cibot, who had stepped behind 
the bed to make signs to Schmucke which the patient 
should not see, he thought she had left the room, and 
added quickly, — 

“ She is murdering me ! ” 

“ What do 3^ou mean ? I, murdering you ! ” she cried, 
coming forward with flaming eyes, her hands on her 
hips. “This is what one gets for the devotion of a 
spaniel. Good God ! ” She burst into tears and fell 
upon a chair. This tragic action caused a fatal revul- 
sion of feeling in poor Pons. 

“ Well,” she said, rising and looking at the two 
friends with the eye of a malignant woman, which can 
deliver a pistol-shot and a poisoned stab in each glance, 
“I’m sick o’ doing nothing but just wearing myself out 
body and soul. You must get a nurse.” 

The two friends looked at each other in terror. 

“ It ’s all very well to make faces at yourselves like a 
couple o’ actors ! I ’ve made up my mind. I ’m going 
now to Doctor Poulain to teU him he must find you a 
nurse, and we ’ll square up our accounts. You ’ll re- 
turn me all the money I ’ve spent upon you, and which 
I never meant to ask for. It ’s only the other day I 
went and borrowed five hundred francs more from Mon- 
sieur Pillerault.” 

“It ees pegauze he ees zo zig!” cried Schmucke, 
precipitating himself upon Madame Cibot and seizing 
her round the waist. “ Blease haf baychenze ! ” 

“You, you’re an angel; I’d kiss your footprints, I 
19 


290 


Cousin Pons. 


would,” she said. “ But Monsieur Pons never liked me ; 
he always hated me. Besides, he may think I want 
him to put me in his will.” 

“ Hush ! you vill gill him ! ” cried Schmucke. 

“ Adieu, monsieur,” she said to Pons, with a blast- 
ing look, “you may live long for all the harm I wish 
you. When you are more friendly to me, and when 
you choose to think what I do is well done, I ’ll come 
back to 3"Ou. TiU then, I shall stay at home. I was a 
mother to you ; and who ever heard o’ children turn- 
ing against their own mothers? No, no. Monsieur 
Schmucke ; I won’t hear nothing you say. I ’ll bring 
you \’our dinner, I ’ll wait upon 3"OU ; but you must 
get a nurse for Monsieur Pons : tell Doctor Poulain to 
send 3^ou one.” 

And she went off, slamming the doors with such vio- 
lence that the precious, fragile things about the apparte- 
ment tottered. The sick man heard the clicking of 
his porcelains, and in his tortured state it was like the 
last stroke when a victim is broken upon the wheel. 

An hour later Madame Cibot, instead of entering 
Pons’s bedroom, called to Schmucke through the door 
and told him he would find his dinner ready in the 
dining-room. The poor German went there with a 
wan face covered with tears. 

“Mein boor Bons ra-afes,” he said; “he zay dat 
you are vicket. It ees pegauze he ees zo eel,” he added, 
to soften Madame Cibot, without blaming Pons. 

“Oh, I’ve had enough of him and his illness! He 
ain’t neither my father, nor my husband, nor my brother, 
nor yet my child. He ’s took a dislike to me ; well, 
that ’s an end of it ! You I ’m willing to follow to the 


Cousin Pons, 


291 


ends o’ the earth. But when it comes to giving one’s 
heart and one’s life and all one’s savings, and neglect- 
ing one’s husband, — for there ’s Cibot ill now, — and 
then to be called a wicked woman, it ’s too much ; it ’s 
making the coffee too strong ; it is — ” 

“Goffy?” 

“Yes, coffee. I don’t use no idle words, I mean 
what I say. You owe me for three months, at a hundred 
and ninety francs : that makes five hundred and sev- 
enty ; then there ’s the rent, which I ve paid twice for 
you, and here ’s the receipt, — six hundred, taking off the 
sou per franc and your taxes : twelve hundred in all, 
less a trifle ; and, lastly, the two thousand francs I lent 
you — without interest, remember. The total comes to 
three thousand one hundred and ninety-two francs. 
Don’t you see that you must have at least two thousand 
francs in hand to pay the nurse and the doctor and the 
apothecary, and to feed the nurse ? That ’s why I Ve 
borrowed a thousand francs from Monsieur Pillerault,” 
she added, showing the two five hundred-franc notes she 
had just received from Gaudissard. 

Schmucke listened to this running account with a 
quite conceivable stupefaction ; for he was as much a 
financier as a cat is a musician. 

“ Matame Zipod, Bons ees oud ov hees het. Parton 
heem. Dake gare ov heem. Gondinue to pe our Brof- 
itence ; I ask id on my knees.” 

And the German knelt down before the Cibot and 
kissed the hands of the executioner. 

“Well, listen, my good soul,” she said, raising him 
and kissing him on the forehead. “ There ’s Cibot ill ; 
he ’s in bed, and I ’ve just sent for Doctor Poulain. 


292 


Cousin Pons. 


Under these circumstances I must get my money matters 
into shape. Besides, Cibot, when he saw me coming 
down in tears, put himself into such a fury that he for- 
bade my setting foot up here again. It is he that insists 
on getting his money back, for ’t is his, you know ; we 
women can’t do nothing against men there. But if we 
give him back his money, — three thousand two hundred 
francs, — perhaps he ’ll calm down. It ’s all he ’s got, 
the poor man; it’s his whole savings for twenty-six 
years, — the sweat of his brow, as you may say. He 
wants his money to-morrow, and there ain’t no squirm- 
ing out of it. You don’t know Cibot ; when he ’s angry 
he ’d kill a man. I might possibly get him to let me go 
on taking care o’ both of you, if the money ’s paid. 
You be easy ; I sha’n’t mind what he takes it into his 
head to say to me ; I ’ll bear it all for your sake, for 
you ’re an angel, you are — ” 

“ No, no ; I am only a boor mann who lofs his frent, 
who vould lay town his laife to zave heems.” 

“But how about the money? My good Monsieur 
Schmucke, here ’s an idea ! I suppose you have n’t noth- 
ing to give me, and yet we must have three thous- 
and francs for your wants. Do you know what I would 
do in your place ? I should n’t make no bones about 
it ; I should just sell six or eight o’ those rubbishing 
pictures, and replace ’em with some you ’ve got in your 
bedroom, stuck with their face against the wall because 
there ain’t no room to put ’em nowhere. One picture 
is as good as another, so what would it matter?” 

“ Pud vy moost you blace any oder bigchurs dare? ” 

“Because he’s so irritable. Yes, I know it’s his 
iUness, for when he ’s well he ’s a lamb ; but he ’s 


CouBin Pons. 


293 


capable o* getting up and ferreting round, and if he gets 
into the salon — though, to be sure, he hasn’t hardly 
strength to cross the threshold — he’ll see the right 
number, and he won’t miss none.” 

“ Dat’s drue.” 

“We’ll tell him about the sale when he gets well 
again. If you do confess it to him, you can throw 
the blame on me, you can say you had to pay me ; 
my shoulders can stand it ! ” 

“ I haf no raight to tisbose of dings dat do nod pe- 
long to me,” said the German, simply. 

“Well, then, I shall have to summon you both before 
the court.” 

“ Dat vould giU heems ! ” 

“Then choose between the two. My gracious! sell 
the pictures, and tell him afterwards ; you can show 
him the summons.” 

“Veil, denn! zo pe id! Zummon uz. Dat vill pe 
my egscuze ; I vill led heem zee de baber.” 

The same day, at seven in the evening, Madame 
Cibot, who had consulted a sheriff, went to fetch 
Schmucke. The German found himself in presence 
of Monsieur Tabareau, who called upon him to make 
payment ; and on his response, — which Schmucke made 
trembling from head to foot, — he was summoned, to- 
gether with Pons, before the court to receive judgment. 
The aspect of this oflScial, and the stamped paper with 
its legal verbiage, produced such an effect upon the 
mind of Schmucke that he resisted no longer. 

“ Zell de bigchurs,” he said, with tears in his eyes. 

The next day, at six o’clock in the morning, 6lie 
Magus and Remonencq unhooked the pictures each had 


294 


Cousin Pons* 


selected from the walls. Two receipts for two thousand 
five hundred francs were made out in due form and 
signed by Schmucke ; the one for 6lie Magus ran as 
follows : — 

“ I, the undersigned, on behalf of Monsieur Pons, ac- 
knowledge the receipt of two thousand five hundred francs 
from Monsieur £lie Magus for four pictures which I have 
sold to him; the said sum to be employed for the personal 
needs of Monsieur Pons. One of these pictures, attributed 
to Diirer, is the portrait of a woman; the second, of the 
Italian school, is also a portrait; the third is a Dutch land- 
scape by Breughel; the fourth, a Florentine picture repre- 
senting the Holy Family, by an unknown master.” 

The receipt given to Remonencq was in the same 
terms, and designated a Greuze, a Claude Lorraine, a 
Rubens, and a Van Dyck under the general name of 
French and Dutch schools. 

“ Zo mooch money meks me dink dat dose pauples 
are really faluaple,” said Schmucke, receiving the five 
thousand francs. 

“They are worth something,” said Remonencq; 
“I’d give a hundred thousand francs for the whole 
lot.” 

The Auvergnat, on being asked to render the little 
service, substituted in the emptyTrames of these master- 
pieces eight other pictures of the same dimensions, chosen 
from among the inferior paintings which Pons had hung 
in Schmucke’s room. As soon as Elie Magus got pos- 
session of his four treasures he called the Cibot down- 
stairs, under pretence of settling their accounts. But as 
soon as he got her there, he complained of his poverty, 


Cousin Pons. 


295 


found defects in the canvas, declared the pictures 
must be rebacked, offered the Cibot thirty thousand 
francs instead of forty, and got her to take them by 
showing the dazzling bits of paper on which the Bank of 
France engraves the words, “ a thousand francs.” Ma- 
gus compelled Eemonencq to give the Cibot a like sum 
by lending it to him on the four pictures which the 
Auvergnat deposited with him. In truth these pic- 
tures seemed to Magus so magnificent that he could 
not make up his mind to let them go ; and the following 
morning he brought six thousand francs premium to the 
iron-dealer, who made over the pictures and gave Elie 
Magus a bill of sale for them. Madame Cibot, thus 
enriched to the amount of sixty-eight thousand francs, 
again demanded the utmost secrecy from her accom- 
plices ; and she begged the Jew to tell her how to 
invest the money so that no one should know that she 
possessed it. 

“Buy shares in the Orleans railway,” he replied. 
“ They are at thirty francs below par ; you will double 
your investment in three years, and you will get certi- 
ficates which you can hide anywhere.” 

“ Please wait here, Monsieur Magus ; I ’m going to 
the business agent of Monsieur Pons’s family. He 
wants to know at what price you would buy the whole 
heap o’ them things upstairs. I’ll go and fetch him.” 

“ If she were only a widow,” said Eemonencq to 
Magus, “ she’d be just what I want; for here she is, 
rich — ” 

“ Especially if she puts her money in the Orleans 
railway ; in two years she will double it. I have put 
my poor little savings there,” added the Jew; “they 


296 


Cousin Pons, 


are to be my daughter’s dot. Let us go and take a 
turn on the boulevard while we are waiting for the 
lawyer.” 

“ If God would only take Cibot to himself, — and he ’s 
sick already, — ” thought Remonencq, “I should have 
a fine wife to keep shop, and I ’d start in business on a 
grand scale — ” 


Cousin Fons, 


297 


xxin. 


m WHICH SCHMUCKE RISES TO THE THRONE OP GOD. 

“ Good-day, my dear Monsieur Fraisier,” said the 
Cibot in a wheedling tone, entering the oflice of her 
counsel. “What^s all this your concierge tells me? 
Are you going to move away from here?” 

“Yes, my dear Madame Cibot, I have taken an 
appartement on the first fioor of the house where Doctor 
Poulain lives, just above his, and I am going to borrow 
two or three thousand francs and furnish it suitably ; 
for the appartement is really a very pretty one ; the 
owner has just done it up. I am employed, as I told 
you, in the interests of Monsieur le president de Mar- 
ville, as well as in yours. I give up the business of a 
mere agent, and I shall put my name down on the 
list of barristers ; and therefore I must live in a good 
house. The Parisian barristers won't let any man in- 
to their ranks unless he has respectable belongings, a 
library, etc. I am a doctor of laws, I have passed 
through my licentiate and been called to the bar, and 
already I have powerful protectors. — Well, how is 
our aflair going on?” 

Perhaps you 'll accept my little hoard which is in the 
savings' bank,” said the Cibot ; “ 't ain't much, — three 


Cousin Pons. 


9m 

thousand francs, the fruit o* twenty-five years’ pinching 
and privation. You can give me a bill of exchange, as 
R^monencq says. I ’m so ignorant that I don’t know 
nothing but what others tell me.” 

“ No ; the statutes forbid a lawyer to draw bills. I ’ll 
give you a receipt bearing interest at five per cent, and 
you can return it to me if I get you into the will of old 
Pons for an annuity of twelve hundred francs.” 

The Cibot, caught in a net, kept silence. 

Silence gives consent,” said Fraisier ; “ bring me 
the money to-morrow.” 

“Well, I’ll willingly pay you your commission in 
advance,” said Madame Cibot ; “ that ’ll be making 
sure o’ my annuity.” 

“How do matters stand now?” resumed Fraisier, 
giving an aflSrmative nod with his head. “ I saw 
Poulain last night. It seems you are harassing j our 
patient finely ; another such bout as that you had yes- 
terday^, and stones will form in the bladder. Be gentle 
with him. Don’t you see, my dear Madame Cibot? 
You must n’t lay up remorse for yourself, or you won’t 
make old bones.” 

“Let me alone with your remorse! Don’t you 
never speak to me o’ the guillotine again ! Monsieur 
Pons is just as obstinate as a mule ! You don’t know 
him ; it is he that makes me mad. There ain’t a 
worse man nor he: his relations are quite right, 
he ’s artful, vindictive, and pig-headed. — Monsieur 
Magus is at the house, as I told you; he’s waiting 
for you.” 

“ Very good ; I ’ll be there as soon as you. Your 
annuity depends on the value of this collection ; if it 


Cousin Pons. 


299 


comes to eight hundred thousand francs, you will have 
fifteen hundred a year : that ’s a fortune ! ” 

“Well, I’ll tell ’em to value the things conscien- 
tiously.” 

An hour later, while Pons was sleeping heavily, 
after taking from Schmucke’s hand an anodyne ordered 
by the doctor, of which Madame Cibot, unknown to the 
German, had doubled the dose, Fraisier, Kemonencq, 
and Magus, three devils incarnate, were examining 
piece by piece the seventeen hundred specimens con- 
tained in the old man’s collection. Schmucke was in 
bed, and the three vultures scenting the carcase were 
masters of the situation. 

“Don’t. make no noise,” said the Cibot every time 
Magus went into an ecstasy, or explained to Remonencq 
the value of some fine work. 

It was a sight to rend the heart, — four shapes of the 
lust of greed, weighing in the palms of their hands 
the property of the sleeping man whose death was the 
object of their eager desire! The valuation of the 
treasures in the salon took three hours. 

“On an average,” said the dirty Jew, “each thing 
here is worth a thousand francs.” 

“ That would be seventeen hundred thousand francs ! ” 
exclaimed Fraisier, thunderstruck. 

“Not to me,” replied Magus, whose eye sank back 
into its cold tints; “I will not give more than eight 
hundred thousand francs. No one knows how long such 
property may stay on his hands. There are master- 
pieces that can’t find a sale in ten years, and the orig- 
inal cost is doubled at compound interest; but I am 
willing to pay cash.” 


800 


Cousin Pons. 


“ In the bedroom there are miniatures, enamels, 
gold and silver snuff-boxes, and glassware,” remarked 
R^monencq. 

“ Can we examine them?” asked Fraisier. 

“1^11 go and see if he's sound asleep,” answered 
the Cibot. 

At a sign from the woman the birds of prey entered. 
“There were the masterpieces,” said Magus, every 
hair of whose white beard quivered, making a sign 
over his shoulder at the salon, “but here are the 
riches ! And what riches ! Kings have nothing finer 
in their museums.” 

Remonencq’s eyes, kindling at the snuff-boxes, glowed 
like carbuncles. Fraisier, cold and quiet as a snake 
coiling for its spring, stretched out his fiat head and 
stood in the attitude which painters give to Mephisto- 
pheles. The three embodied greeds, thirsting for gold 
as devils thirst for the dews of Paradise, cast each a 
glance at the possessor of all this wealth, who made 
a movement in his sleep as if from nightmare. Sud- 
denly, under the glitter of those diabolic eyes, the sick 
man opened his own and uttered a piercing cry, — 

“ Thieves ! robbers ! Help ! they will murder me ! ” 
Evidently he continued to dream, though wide awake ; 
he sprang up in his bed ; his eyes were staring, white, 
and fixed, and unable to turn. i)lie Magus and Remo- 
nencq ran to the door, but there they were rooted to the 
ground by these words, — 

“ Magus here ! I am betrayed ! ” 

The sick man was awake now, roused by the instinct 
of preservation of his treasures, — a feeling fully equal 
to that of personal preservation. 


Cousin Pons. 


301 


Madame Cibot, who is that man ? ” he said, shud- 
dering at the sight of Fraisier, who stood motionless. 

“ My gracious ! how could I turn him out? ” she said, 
winking a sign to Fraisier. “ Monsieur has just come 
with a message from your relations — ” 

“ Yes, monsieur, I am here on behalf of Madame de 
Marville, her husband and her daughter, to express 
their regret at your illness ; they heard of it accident- 
ally, and are anxious to nurse you themselves. They 
propose that you should go to their country-seat at 
Marville to recover your health. Madame la vicomtesse 
Popinot, the little Cecile whom you love so well, will 
be your nurse. She has taken your side against her 
mother, and has made her see she was mistaken.” 

“And they have sent you here, my heirs! have 
they?” cried Pons indignantly, “with the cleverest 
connoisseur and the keenest expert in all Paris for a 
guide ! Ha ! the errand is a good one,” he went on, 
laughing like a madman. “You have come to value 
my pictures, my curiosities, my snuff-boxes, my minia- 
tures ! Value, indeed! why you’ve got a man with 
you who not only knows everything there is to be known 
about them, but one who could buy them all twice over, 
for he is ten times a millionnaire. My dear relations 
won’t have to wait long for their inheritance,” he added, 
with bitter irony, “ they ’ve dealt me my death-blow — 
Ah ! Madame Cibot, you called yourself my mother, and 
you ’ve brought these people, my rival and the Camu- 
sots, here while I slept. Out, all of you ! ” 

And the unhappy man, beside himself through the 
double effect of fear and anger, leaped out of bed like 
a spectre. 


302 


Cousin Pons, 


“ Take my arm, monsieur,” said the Cibot, to keep 
him from falling. “Be calm; the gentlemen have 
gone.” 

“ I wish to see the salon ! ” cried the dying man. 

Madame Cibot signed to the crows to fly away ; then 
she seized Pons, lifted him like a feather, and put him 
back in his bed, in spite of his cries. Seeing that the 
wretched man was utterly exhausted, she went to close 
the outer door of the appartement. The three assassins 
were still upon the landing ; and when the Cibot saw 
them she told them to wait, for she overheard Fraisier 
sajdng to Magus, — 

“Write me a letter, signed by both of you, in 
which you pledge yourselves to pay nine hundred 
thousand francs cash for the collection of Monsieur 
Pons, and I’ll make sure that you get a large premium 
on it.” 

Then he whispered in Madame Cibot’s ear a word — 
a single word — which no one heard, and went down- 
stairs with the two others to the porter’s lodge. 

“ Madame Cibot,” said the unhappy Pons when the 
woman returned to him, “ are they gone? ” 

“ Gone ! who?” she demanded. 

“ Those men.” 

“What men? Come, what men do you suppose 
you ’ve seen ? ” she said. “ You ’ve had a raging fever ; 
if it had n’t been for me you ’d have jumped out o’ the 
window, — and j-ou talk to me about men ! — How long 
are you going to behave like this ? ” 

“ Do 3^ou mean to say that there was not a man 
standing there just now who said he was sent by my 
family ? — ” 


Cousin Pons, 


303 


“Are you going to stand me out about it?” she 
cried. “ My gracious ! do you know where you ought 
to be? In a lunatic asylum. Talk about seeing men, 
indeed ! ” 

“ 6lie Magus, Remonencq — ” 

“Oh! as for Remonencq, yes, you may have seen 
him ; for he came up just now to tell me my poor 
Cibot IS very ill. I’m going to leave you and see 
after him. My Cibot first of all, I say. When my man 
is ill I don’t think o’ nobody else. Now, you try to 
keep quiet and go to sleep for two hours. I ’ve sent for 
Doctor Poulain, and I’ll bring him up when he gets 
here. Take your drink, and be good.” 

“Was there no one in my room, standing there, just 
now, when I woke up?” 

“ No one,” she said ; “ you must have seen Monsieuf 
Remonencq in the mirror.” 

“ You are right, Madame Cibot,” said the sick man, 
suddenly becoming as docile as a lamb. 

“Well, there, now you are reasonable! Adieu, my 
cherub ; keep yourself quiet, and I ’ll soon be back.” 

When Pons heard the door of the appartement close, 
he collected all his remaining strength to get out of 
bed ; for he said to himself, — 

“They are deceiving me, they are plundering me! 
Schmucke is a mere child ; he would let them tie him 
in a sack ! ” 

And the poor man, roused by the desire to clear up 
his suspicions in regard to the frightful scene which had 
just occurred, and which seemed to him too real to be 
a delusion, had strength enough to reach the door of 
his bed-room. He opened it with diflficulty and entered 


304 


Cousin Pons, 


the salon, where the sight of all his dear pictures, his 
statues, his Florentine bronzes, his porcelains, his treas- 
ures, revived his heart. The old collector, in his dress- 
ing-gown, with bare legs and his brain on fire, was able 
to walk round the lanes formed by the sideboards and 
tables which divided the room longitudinally into 
two parts. At a glance he counted everything, and 
saw that the museum was intact. He was about to 
return to his bed when his eyes were attracted by a 
picture of Greuze put in the place of the Knight of 
Malta by Sebastian del Piombo. Suspicion tore its 
way through his mind as lightning rends the stormy 
heavens. He looked at the places of his eight master- 
pieces and saw they were each replaced by other pic- 
tures. A black veil was suddenly drawn over his eyes, 
he fainted, and fell upon the floor. The swoon was so 
complete that he lay there two hours, and was found 
by Schmucke when the German, having wakened, 
came out of his own room to go to his friend^s. 
Schmucke had much difficulty in raising the dying man 
and putting him back to bed ; but when he questioned 
the quasi-corpse and obtained only a glazed look and 
muttered words, the poor German, instead of losing 
his head, became a hero of friendship. Under the 
pressure of despair, this child-man had inspirations 
such as come to loving women and to mothers. He 
heated towels (he actually found towels !) and wrapped 
them round his friend’s hands and put them to the pit 
of his stomach; then he took the cold, damp brow 
between his own hands and called back the vital spark 
with a potency of will worthy of Apollonius of Tyana. 
He kissed his friend upon the eyelids like those Marys 


CouBin Pom. 


305 


beside the Dead Christ whom the Italian sculptors call 
La Piet^ and carve upon their bas-reliefs. These 
divine efforts, this transfusion of one life into another, 
this act of motherhood, this work of love, was crowned 
with success. At the end of half an hour Pons was 
warmed to life, and seemed once more a human form ; 
natural color came back to his eyes, and surface- 
warmth restored the action of the internal organs. 
Schmucke made Pons drink an infusion of balm mixed 
with wine, which revived the vital spark in the failing 
body ; intelligence shone once more upon the brow 
lately as senseless as a stone. Pons understood the 
sacred devotion, the potent affection, to which his 
resuscitation was due. 

“ Without thee I should have died ! ” he said, feeling 
his face softly bathed in the tears of his friend, who 
laughed and wept by turns. 

Hearing these words, and racked by the delirium of 
hope, which equals that of despair, poor Schmucke, 
whose strength was exhausted, collapsed like a torn 
balloon. It was his turn to give way, and he let him- 
self fall into an arm-chair, clasping his hands and thank- 
ing God in fervent prayer. A miracle had been wrought 
for him ! He took no thought of the virtue of his own 
prayer of action ; he believed only in the power of the 
God whom he invoked. Nevertheless, the seeming 
miracle was an effect of natural causes which has often 
been verified by physicians. A patient surrounded by 
affection, cared for by persons anxious to save his life, 
will be saved, if his chances for life are equal, when 
another man in charge of hired nurses will succumb. 
Doctors refuse to see in this the effect of involuntary 
20 


306 


Cousin Pons, 


magnetism ; they attribute the result to intelligent care, 
to an exact observance of their orders. But many 
mothers know the virtue of these passionate projections 
of a steady desire. 

“ My good Schmucke ! — ” 

“Toan’d spick ; mein heart unterzdants : rezd,— rezd 
and zleeb.” 

Poor friend ! noble creature! child of God, living 
in God’s presence ! the only being who ever loved me ! ” 
said Pons by interjections, discovering hitherto unknown 
modulations in his voice. 

The soul about to take its flight breathed through 
these words, which gave to Schmucke ecstasies well- 
nigh equal to those of love. 

“ Yez, 3’ez ! Und I vill pegome a lion ; I vill vork ; 
I vill deach for dwo.” 

“ Listen, my good and faithful and precious friend ! 
Let me speak : the time is short ; I am dying ; I can- 
not recover from these repeated shocks.” 

Schmucke wept like a child. 

“Listen now: you shall weep later,” said Pons. 
“ Christian, 3’ou must submit. I have been robbed — 
b}^ Madame Cibot ! Before I leave you I must tell you 
certain things ; for you know nothing of life. They 
have taken eight pictures, which are worth a large sum 
of mone^" — ” 

“ Forgif me ! I haf zold dem I ” 

• “You!” 

“I — ” said the poor German. “You und I vare 
summoned be-for de goord.” 

“ Summoned ! By whom? ** 

“ Vait a minute.” 


Cousin Pons. 


307 


Schmucke went to fetch the stamped paper left by 
the sheriff’s officer, and brought it back. 

Pons read it attentively ; then he let the paper fall, 
and kept silence. This student of human labor, who up 
to the present time had ignored the moral aspects of life, 
suddenly perceived each thread of the net woven by the 
Cibot. His intuition as an artist, his intelligence as a 
pupil of the Academy of Rome, all his youth, flashed 
back upon him for a few moments. 

“ My good Schmucke, obey me as soldiers obey their 
captain. Listen. Go down to the porter’s lodge and 
tell that horrible woman that I wish to see the person 
who was sent here by my cousin the president, and 
that if he does not come, I intend to bequeath my col- 
lection to the Musee ; and I shall proceed to make my 
wiU.” 

Schmucke did the errand. But at the flrst word 
Madame Cibot began to smile. 

“ Our dear patient has had a raging fever, my good 
Monsieur Schmucke,” she said. “ He fancied he saw 
people in his room. I give you my word, as an honest 
woman, there was n’t no one come from the family o’ 
the dear man.” 

Schmucke returned with that answer, which he re- 
peated verbatim. 

“ She is more daring, more astute, more cunning, 
more Machiavelian, than I thought for,” said Pons, 
smiling. “She lies, even in her lodge! Now, listen 
to me. She brought here this morning a Jew named 
^llie Magus, Remonencq, and a third man whose name 
I don’t know. She counted on my being asleep to let 
them appraise the value of my collection. I woke by 


308 


Cousin Pons, 


accident, and I saw them weighing my snuff-boxes in 
their very hands ! Then the unknown man said that he 
was sent here by the Camusots. I talked with him ; 
but that infamous Cibot maintained to me that I was 
dreaming ! My good Schmucke, I was not dreaming : 
I heard the man plainlj^ ; he spoke to me. The two 
others were frightened, and ran to the door. I felt sure 
the Cibot would deny it to you. Her scheme shall fail. 
I will set a trap of my own, in which the infamous crea- 
ture shall be caught. My poor friend, you think 
Madame Cibot an angel. She is a wretch who for a 
month past has been slowly killing me for her own 
covetous ends ! I could not believe such wickedness 
existed in a woman who has served us faithfully for 
many years. My confidence has destroyed me. How 
much did they pay you for those eight pictures ? ” 

“ Faife dousant vrancs.” 

“Good God! they were worth twenty times as 
much ! ” cried Pons ; “ they were the flower of my col- 
lection. I have no time now to biing a suit to recover 
them ; besides, it would only be exposing you as the 
dupe of these scoundrels. A lawsuit would be the 
death of you ! You don’t know what the law is : it is 
the sewer of all moral infamies ! At the mere sight of 
such villanies souls like yours would expire. And, 
besides, you will be rich enough. Those pictures cost 
me four thousand francs. I have had them thirty-six 
years. We have been robbed with astonishing clever- 
ness. I am on the verge of the grave. I care for j^ou ; 
I think of you alone, — you, the best of human beings. 
I will not have you stripped of everything, for all 
that I possess is yours. Therefore, 5"ou must learn to 


Couiin Pons. 


309 


distrust others, you who have never known what dis- 
trust means ! God protects 3’ou, I know it ; but he 
may forget you for a moment, and then you will be 
pillaged, like a merchant-vessel by buccaneers. The 
Cibot is a monster ; she is killing me : and 3’ou be- 
lieve she is an angel ! I wish to show ^’ou what she 
is. Go and tell her to send me a notary, for I intend 
to make my will. I will show you that woman in the 
act of robbing us ! 

Schmucke listened to Pons as if he were reciting the 
Apocalypse. If there really existed so vile a nature, if 
Pons were right, then it was for him the negation of 
Providence. 

“ Mein boor frent Bons ees eel,” he said, again de- 
scending to the lodge, and addressing Madame Cibot. 
“ He vants to mek his vill : go and gate a nodary.” 

This was said in presence of several persons ; for by 
this time Cibot was dangerously" ill. Remonencq, his 
sister, two concierges from neighboring houses, three 
servants belonging to the other tenants, and the tenant 
of the first floor looking toward the street, were all 
standing in the porte-cochere. 

“You may" just go and find your notary yourself,” 
cried the Cibot, her eyes full of tears, “ and have your 
will made by whom you please. It ^s not likely that 
when my" poor Cibot is dying I should leave his bed- 
side. I ’d give all the Ponses in the world to save my 
Cibot, — a man who hain’t never given me so much as 
two ounces o’ grief in the thirty years I ’ve lived with 
him.” 

And she went into the inner room, leaving Schmucke 
bewildered. 


310 


CouBin PoriB, 


“Monsieur,” said the tenant of the first fioor, “is 
Monsieur Pons very ill?” 

This tenant, named Jolivard, was employed in the 
record-oflSce at the Palais-de-Justice. 

“ He nearly tied an hour aco,” answered Schmucke, 
mournfully. 

“Close b}" here, in the rue Saint-Louis, there ^s a 
Monsieur Trognon, a notary,” observed Jolivard ; “he 
is the notary for this quarter.” 

“ Should you like me to go and fetch him?” said 
Remonencq to Schmucke. 

“ Eef you bleaze,” answered Schmucke; “for eef 
Matame Zipod gan not nurse my boor frent, I moost 
not leaf him in der zdade he ees in.” 

“ Madame Cibot told us he was crazy,” observed 
Jolivard. 

“ Grazy ! ” cried Schmucke, terror-stricken, “grazy ! 
he nefer hat his mindt zo goot, — and dat ees joost vat 
mek me zo uneazy.” 

All the persons grouped about the speakers listened 
to the conversation with a very natural curiosity which 
helped to imprint it on their memories. Schmucke, who 
did not know Fraisier, had not observed that satanic 
head with its brilliant eyes. The lawyer, by two words 
in the Cibot’s ear, had prompted this bold scene, which 
would otherwise have been bej’ond the woman’s own 
powers, but which she now played with astonishing 
abihty. To have it thought that the patient was out of 
his mind was a corner-stone of the edifice the man of 
law was engaged in erecting. The incident of the morn- 
ing had played into Fraisier’s hand ; but if he had not 
been present at this moment it is possible that Madame 


Cousin Pons, 


311 


Cibot, in her trouble, might have lost her head when the 
innocent Schmucke spread Pons’s net and requested her 
to recall the emissary of the Camusot family. Eemo- 
nencq, who at this moment saw Doctor Poulain ap- 
proaching, asked nothing better than to get away. The 
reasons for his haste are as follows. 


312 


Cousin Pons. 


XXIV. 

THE CRAFT OF A TESTATOR. 

For the last ten days, Remonencq had played the part 
of Providence, — a course singularly displeasing to Jus- 
tice, who boasts of being the sole representative of deity. 
Remonencq was resolved to get rid, at any cost, of the 
one obstacle that stood in the way of his happiness. To 
him, happiness consisted in marrying the captivating 
concierge and tripling his capital. So, observing the 
little tailor as he drank his herb-tea, the thought came 
into the Auvergnat’s head to convert a passing indis- 
position into a fatal illness ; and his business of iron- 
working put the means in his way. 

One morning, as he smoked his pipe, leaning, as 
usual, against the post of his shop-door, dreaming of the 
fine shop on the boulevard de la Madeleine where Ma- 
dame Cibot, gorgeously dressed, should rule the roast, 
his eyes fell on a brass disk covered with verdigris. 
The idea of cleaning his disk into Cibot’s tisane darted 
through his mind. He fastened the disk, which was 
about the size of a five-franc piece, to his dress by a bit 
of twine ; and every day while Madame Cibot was busy 
with “ her gentlemen,” Remonencq went to inquire for 
the health of his friend the tailor. During this visit, 
which lasted some time, he put the disk to soak in the 
tea, and when he went away he pulled it out by the bit 


Couiin Pons, 


313 


of string. This slight addition of the oxide of copper, 
commonly called verdigris, introduced a deleterious ele- 
ment into the beneficial tisane, though in infinitesimal 
proportions, which made insidious inroads into the S3"s- 
tem. The following are the exact results of this criminal 
homoeopathic treatment. On the third day poor Cibot’s 
hair began to fall off, his teeth loosened in their sockets, 
and the whole mechanism of the S3"stem was affected by 
the imperceptible dose of poison. Doctor Poulain puz- 
zled his brains over the effects of the decoction, for he 
knew enough to recognize the presence of some destruc- 
tive agent. Unknown to every one, he carried off the 
tisane and analj'zed it himself; but found nothing. It 
so chanced that on that day Remonencq, frightened at 
his own work, had omitted to use the fatal disk. Doctor 
Poulain squared the matter with his own mind and the 
demands of science by supposing that the blood of the 
little tailor, who sat cross-legged on a table before 
the window of his damp den, had become vitiated and 
decomposed, partly from want of exercise, but above all 
from perpetually breathing the fetid exhalations of the 
street gutter. The rue de Normandie is one of the old 
streets with a cleft roadway, or open gutter, which the 
city of Paris has not yet supplied with water-sluices, and 
where the black stream of household slops filters among 
the stones and makes the sort of mud which is peculiar 
to the streets of Paris. 

Madame Cibot herself went and came, and led an 
active life, while her husband, an indefatigable work- 
man, was alwaj^s sitting like a fakir in front of his one 
window. His knees had become ossified, the blood had 
settled on his chest, his legs, shrunken and distorted, 


Cousin Pons, 


m 

had dwindled away until they were nearly useless. 
Moreover, the copper-colored skin of the little man 
seemed to show that he had been sickly for a long time. 
The good health of the wife and the bad health of the 
husband appeared natural results to the doctor under 
the circumstances. 

“What is really the matter with my poor Cibot?'* 
the woman asked of Doctor Poulain. 

“ My dear Madame Cibot,” the doctor answered, “ he 
is dying of the disease of door-keepers. His general 
debility shows an incurable vitiation of the blood.” 

A crime without any object, for no gain, and to serve 
no apparent interests ended by lulling Doctor Poulain’s 
suspicions. Who could want to kill Cibot ? His wife? 
The doctor saw her tasting his tisane as she sweetened 
it. A large number of crimes escape the vengeance 
of society ; and they are commonly those which are 
committed, as in this instance, without startling signs 
of ■violence — such as bloodstains, strangulation, or 
bruises — or clumsy blunders, more especially when 
they result in no apparent profit, and are committed 
among the lower classes. Crime is usually betrayed by 
its antecedents, — by rancor, or some obvious cupidity, 
known to the persons who surround the scene of it. But 
in the case of the little tailor, R^monencq, and Madame 
Cibot, no one had the least reason or interest to suspect 
a crime, except the doctor. The sickly, copper-colored 
tailor, adored by his wife, had no fortune and no ene- 
mies. The motives and the passion of Remonencq were 
as safely hidden from sight as the ill-gotten gains of 
Madame Cibot. The doctor knew the woman and all her 
feelings, through and through ; he believed her capable 


Cousin Pons. 


315 


of tormenting Pons : but he knew her to be with- 
out the desire or the will to commit a crime ; moreover, 
he saw her taking a spoonful of Cibot’s food whenever 
she gave it in his presence. Poulain, the onlj^ person 
able to come at the truth, believed there must be some 
accidental cause, some one of those surprising ex- 
ceptions to known laws which render the practice of 
medicine so uncertain ; and in truth the little tailor, as a 
consequence of his stunted existence, was unfortunately 
so far reduced in health that the addition of these infini- 
tesimal doses of verdigris was sufficient to cause his 
death. The neighbors and the gossiping old cronies 
took a tone which completely screened Remonencq and 
gave sufiScient reason for this sudden death. 

“Ah!” said one, “I’ve said for a long time that 
Monsieur Cibot wasn’t well.” 

“ He worked too hard, that man,” said another ; “ he 
has dried up his blood.” 

“ He would n’t listen to me,” cried a neighbor. “ I 
proposed to him to go out for a walk Sundays, and to 
take a day off sometimes. Two days a week ain’t too 
much for recreation.” 

In short, the gossip of the neighborhood, usually so 
accusative, and to which justice listens through the ears 
of the commissary of the police, that sovereign ruler of 
the lower classes, explained quite naturally the death 
of the little tailor. Nevertheless, the thoughtful air and 
the anxious eyes of Doctor Poulain made Remonencq 
very uneasy ; so, seeing him approach, he proposed to 
Schmucke with much eagerness to go in search of this 
Monsieur Trognon, who was known to Fraisier. 

“ I ’ll be back by the time the will is made,” whispered 


316 


Cousin Fons, 


Fraisier to the Cibot. “ In spite of your grief, you must 
look after the main chance, you know.” 

And the little barrister disappeared like a shadow to 
meet his friend the doctor. 

“ Eh ! Poulain,” he cried, “ it ’s all right ; we are set 
up for life ! I ’U tell you about it to-night. Decide 
what place will suit j^ou best, and you shall have it ! As 
for me, I’m to Juge-de~paix! Tabareau won’t refuse 
me his daughter now. I take upon myself to get you 
married to Mademoiselle Vitel, the granddaughter of 
the present justice. ” 

Fraisier left Poulain naturally bewildered by these 
words, and hopped upon the boulevard like a ball, 
where he signed to a passing omnibus, and in ten min- 
utes was deposited by that modern stage-coach at the 
head of the rue de Choiseul. It was about four o’clock 
in the afternoon ; Fraisier was sure of finding Madame 
de MarviUe alone, for the judges never left the Palais 
until five. 

Madame de Marville received Fraisier with marks of 
distinction which showed that, according to a promise 
made to Madame Vatinelle, Monsieur Leboeuf had 
spoken favorably of the former barrister of Mantes. 
Amelie was almost as caressing to him as Madame de 
Montpensier must have been with Jacques Clement ; the 
little lawyer was her knife. But when Fraisier presented 
her with the letter signed by i]lie and Remonencq in 
which they pledged themselves to take the whole of Pons’s 
collection for nine hundred thousand francs in cash, Ma- 
dame de Marville gave him a glance in which all the 
gold of that sum glittered. It was a tide of the lust of 
greed flowing from her eyes to those of the barrister. ' 


Cousin Pons. 


31T 


“Monsieur de Marville,” she began, “has charged 
me to invite you to dine with us to-moiTOW ; it will be 
a family party. You will meet Monsieur Godeschal, 
the successor of Maitre Desroches, my attorney ; also 
Berthier, our notary, and daughter and son-in-law. 
After dinner, you and I and the attorney and notary 
will have the little conference you asked for, and I will 
then give you full powers to act. The two gentlemen 
will obey your directions as you request, and they will 
see that all is done properly. You shall a power 
of attorney from Monsieur de Marville whenever 
necessary — ” 

“ I must have it by the day of the death.” 

“ It shall be read3^” 

“Madame, if I ask for a power of attorney, and if 
I desire that your own lawyer shall not appear in 
the case, it is far less for my interests than for yours. 
When I devote myself to my clients my devotion is 
unreserved ; therefore, madame, I ask in return the 
same fidelity, the same confidence, from my protectors 
— I dare not, in your case, say clients. You may per- 
haps think that in acting thus I wish to fasten myself 
upon this affair. No, no, madame ; but if anything 
reprehensible were to happen, — for in a matter of 
inheritance people are sometimes carried away, more 
especially when it is a question of nine hundred thou- 
sand francs, — you could not throw the blame on a 
man like Maitre Godeschal, who is known to be integ- 
rity itself, but you could put what you like on the 
shoulders of a miserable little agent like me.” 

Madame de Marville looked at Fraisier with admira- 
tion. 


618 


Cousin Pons, 


“You will certainly go very high or very low,” she 
said. “ If I were 3’ou, instead of wishing to retire as a 
mere juge-de^paix^ I should seek to be procureur-du- 
roi at Mantes, and carr3" ever3’thing before me.’* 

“ I know what I am doing, madame. The office of 
juge-de-paix is a curate’s cob for Monsieur Vitel ; it will 
be a war-horse for me.” 

Madame de Marville was thus led into making her 
final confidence to Fraisier. 

“You seem to me so devoted to our interests,” she 
said, “that I shall confide to 3'OU the difficulties of our 
position, and also our hopes. At the time of a projected 
marriage between my daughter and an adventurer who 
has since become a banker, the president was desirous 
of adding to the Marville estate by the purchase of 
some grass-lands, then for sale. When our daughter 
married the Vicomte Popinot we relinquished that mag- 
nificent propert3^, as 3’^ou are aware ; but I am very 
anxious, my daughter being an onl3" child, to acquire 
the adjacent grass-lands. Part of these beautiful mead- 
ows have been sold to an Englishman, who is about to 
return to England after living on the estate nearl3" 
twent3’ years. He has built a most charming cottage in 
a delightful situation, between the park of Marville and 
the fields which formerl3^ belonged to the estate ; and 
he has bought up, to make a park of his own, wood- 
lands and game-preserves and gardens, at really fabu- 
lous prices. The cottage and its dependencies make a 
fine piece of landscape-gardening ; moreover, it adjoins 
m3" daughter’s park- wall. We can buy the whole, the 
lands and buildings, for seven hundred thousand francs ; 
the net proceeds of the land are about twenty thousand 


Cousin Pom. 


319 


francs a year. But if Mr. Wadman knew that we were 
seeking to buy the property he would no doubt ask two 
or three hundred thousand more, — he really loses as 
much as that ; for in country neighborhoods they esti- 
mate only the value of the land, the buildings go for 
nothing.” 

“ Madame, 3^ou are, I think, so certain of this inher- 
itance from your cousin that I shall be happy to play 
the role of purchaser on your behalf ; I will engage to 
get 3'ou the property at the lowest possible price, under 
private seal, — the usual method in sales of landed 
estate. I understand such matters : thej^ were my 
specialty’ at Mantes. Vatinelle doubled his practice 
in consequence, for I worked in his name.” 

“ Your lia,ison with little Madame Vatinelle grew out 
of it, perhaps. That notary ought to be rich by this 
time.” 

“ But Madame Vatinelle is go extravagant — Well, 
madame, don’t give yourself any anxiety ; I will dish up 
your Englishman, done to a turn.” 

“ If you can manage it 3’ou will earn m3’ everlasting 
gratitude,” she replied. “Adieu, my dear Monsieur 
Fraisier ; we shall hope to see 3’ou to-morrow.” 

Fraisier departed, bowing to Madame de Marville 
with less servility than on the former occasion. 

‘ ‘ I dine to-morrow with Monsieur Camusot de Mar- 
ville ! ” he thought to himself. “ Well done ; I ’ve got 
those people ! But to be absolute master of the whole 
affair, I must be the legal adviser of that German, in 
the person of Tabareau, the sheriff of the juge-de- 
paix^ — Tabareau, who won’t give me his daughter ! an 
only daughter ! But he ’ll let me have her when I am 


320 


Cousin Pons, 


justice myself. Mademoiselle Tabareau, that tall, red- 
haired, consumptive girl, possesses in her own right, 
through her mother, a house in the place Roj^ale ; so I 
shall be eligible for the Chamber. At the death of her 
father she will have another six thousand francs a year. 
She *s not handsome ; but hang it ! when 3'ou jump 
from nothing to eighteen thousand a year, it won’t do 
to look at 3^our feet.” 

As he walked back along the boulevard to the rue de 
Normandie, he let himself float upon the current of 
these golden dreams. He imagined himself forever 
above the wretchedness of want ; he thought how he 
would many his friend Poulain to Mademoiselle Vitel, 
daughter of a.juge-de-paix. He saw himself, supported 
by the doctor, a king in his own quarter ; he ruled over 
the elections, — municipal, political, and military. The 
boulevards seem short indeed when, as we walk along, 
our ambitions ride upon the wings of fanc3\ 

When Schmucke returned to his friend Pons, he told 
him that Cibot was dying, and that Remonencq had 
gone to fetch Monsieur Trognon, the notary. Pons 
was struck b\^ the name, which Madame Cibot was for- 
ever dragging into her interminable discourse, recom- 
mending him this notar^^ as integrity itself. The sick 
man, whose suspicions had grown intense since the 
morning, was seized with a vivid idea, which completed 
the scheme he had formed to baffle Madame Cibot and 
expose her to the credulous Schmucke. 

“ Schmucke,” he said, taking the hand of the poor 
German, who was bewildered by so many new and 
strange events, “ there must be great confusion in the 


Cousin Pons. 


321 


house. If the porter is at the point of death, we shall be 
at liberty for a time, — that is to say, free from spies ; 
for we are spied upon, you may be sure of that ! Go 
out now, and take a cabriolet, and drive to the theatre ; 
tell Mademoiselle H^loise, our leading danseuse, that I 
want to see her before I die ; ask her to come here to- 
night at half-past ten o’clock, when the ballet is over. 
From there, go to your two friends Schwab and Brun- 
ner, and beg them to come here to-morrow at nine 
o’clock in the morning and ask how I am, as if they 
had happened to call, and then to come up and see me.” 

The plan laid by the old artist, who felt himself to 
be d3dng, was as follows : He wished to provide for 
Schmucke by making him his sole heir ; and to protect 
him against all legal quibbling he determined to dictate 
his will to a notar}" in presence of witnesses, so that no 
one could subsequently declare that he was out of his 
mind. He would thus deprive the Camusots of all pre- 
text for interfering with his last wishes. The name of 
Trognon made him suspect some machination : he fan- 
cied a legal error would be introduced into the will, or 
that some treachery was premeditated by the Cibot ; and 
he resolved to emplo}" Trognon to witness a will which 
he intended to write with his own hand, and would then 
seal up and put away in the drawer of his bureau. He 
counted on being able to show Schmucke (whom he 
meant to hide in a wardrobe near his bed) the sight of 
Madame Cibot getting at the will, unsealing it, reading 
it, and sealing it up again. He intended to destroy that 
will the next day, and make another, before a notary", 
which should be legal and incontestable. When the 
Cibot treated him like a lunatic and a visionary, he saw 
21 


322 


Cousin Pons. 


in that pretence a hatred, vengeance, and greed worthy 
of Madame de Marville ; for the poor man, confined 
to his bed for the last two months, had, during those 
sleepless nights and those long hours of solitude, gone 
over and over in his mind all the events of his life. 

Sculptors, both ancient and modern, often place on 
either side the portals of a tomb angels who bear a 
lighted torch. These rays, as they light the path to 
death, reveal to the djdng the history of their faults 
and errors. Sculpture here presents a great idea, and 
gives form to a fact of human nature. Death-beds 
have their own sagacity. Often young girls of tender 
years attain the wisdom of old age, speak with the 
voice of prophecy, judge their own families, and cease 
to be the dupes of any illusion. That is the poetrj’ 
of Death. But — and here is a strange truth worth}’ of 
note — there are two ways by which men die. This 
poetry of prophetic intuition, this gift of looking before 
and after, belongs only to those dying persons whose 
physical powers are attacked, and who are perishing 
through the destruction of the vital organs of the body. 
Victims poisoned, like Louis XIV., by gangrene, con- 
sumptive persons, sick men dying like Pons of fever, 
like Madame de Mortsauf of diseases of the chest, or like 
soldiers from wounds received in the vigor of life, often 
attain this sublime lucidity of mind, and their deaths are 
admirable, in fact amazing ; while those who die of what 
we may call diseases of the intellectual forces, seated 
in the brain or in the nervous system, — which latter 
serves as an intermediary between the body and the 
mind, and furnishes the combustible for thought, — such 
persons die wholly and at once. In their case mind 


Cousin Pons. 


323 


and body succumb together. The former — souls with- 
out bodies — are the realization of Biblical spectres ; 
the others are corpses. This virgin man, this epicu- 
rean Cato, this righteous soul well-nigh pure from sin, 
had tardily discerned the gall that filled the heart of 
Madame de Marville : he divined the world at the mo- 
ment of quitting it ; and thus for the last few hours he 
gayly played his part, like a joyous artist to whom all 
events are the pretext for a satire or a jest. The last 
ties which bound him to life — the chains of admiration, 
the strong links which hold the connoisseur to the mas- 
terpieces of art — had snapped that morning. When 
he saw that Madame Cibot had robbed him. Pons said a 
Christian farewell to the pomps and vanities of art, to 
his collection, to his love for the creators of such glori- 
ous things ; he wished to think only of death, and in 
the spirit of our ancestors, who placed it among the 
Christian fetes. His tenderness for Schmucke inspired 
the effort to protect him even from beyond the grave. 
That paternal thought was the motive which made him 
choose the ballet-dancer as a means of succor against 
the treacherous natures who surrounded him, and who 
doubtless would not spare his appointed heir. 

Heloise Brisetout was one of those natures which re- 
main true in a false position. Capable of any trick or 
folly against her rich adorers, a girl of the style of 
Jenny Cadine or Josepha, she was, nevertheless, a good 
comrade, not afraid of any earthly power, by dint of 
perceiving the weakness of all, and of battling with the 
police during the carnival and at the bals champUres 
(which had little that was sylvan about them) at 
Mabille. 


324 


Cousin Pons, 


“ If she has got my place for her friend Garangeot,” 
thought Pons, “ she will be all the more willing to help 
me. 

Schmucke left the house without being observed in 
the confusion which now reigned in the porter’s lodge ; 
and he got back with the utmost rapidity, so as not to 
leave Pons too long alone. 

Monsieur Trognon arrived to make the will just as 
Schmucke returned. Though Cibot was actually at 
the point of death, his wife accompanied the notary, 
brought him into the sick-room, and then retired, leav- 
ing Schmucke, Monsieur Trognon, and Pons together ; 
but she caught up a little hand-glass of curious work- 
manship, and took her station behind the door, which 
she left ajar. She could thus not only hear but see 
all that went on at this most vital moment for her 
interests. 

“Monsieur,” said Pons, “I have, unfortunately, all 
my faculties, for I feel that I am dying ; and, doubtless 
by the will of God, I have been spared none of the 
agonies of death. This is Monsieur Schmucke.” 

The notary bowed to Schmucke. 

“He is the only friend I have on earth,” resumed 
Pons, “ and I wish to make him my sole heir. Tell me 
how to draw my will in such a way that my friend — 
who is a German, and knows nothing of our laws — may 
obtain the property without opposition.” 

“It is possible to contest everything, monsieur,” 
said the notary : “ that is one of the inconveniences of 
human justice ; but in the matter of wills, they can be 
drawn so as to be incontestable.” 

“ In what way? ” asked Pons. 


Cousin Pons, 


325 


“By making them before a notary in presence of 
witnesses who certify that the testator is in possession 
of all his faculties, and in case he has neither wife nor 
children, father nor brother — ” 

“ That is my case. My affections are all centred upon 
my dear friend Schmucke, whom you see here.” 

Schmucke wept. 

“ If you have none but distant collateral relations, 
the law allows you the free disposal of all your prop- 
erty, real and personal, provided you do not bequeath 
it in a way to offend public morality. You must have 
seen wills attacked on account of the eccentricities of 
the testator ; but a will made before a notary is certain 
to hold good, — the identity of the testator cannot be 
denied, the notary can prove his sanity, and the signa- 
tures are above suspicion. Still, a will drawn in the 
testator’s own handwriting, in legal form and clearly, 
is seldom open to discussion.” 

“I have decided, for reasons known to myself, to 
write my will, at your dictation, with my own hand, and 
to give it in charge of my friend here. Can that be 
done ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said the notary. “ Will you write? I 
will dictate.” 

“ Schmucke, give me my little desk of Boule. 
Monsieur, dictate in a low voice, if you please ; for,” 
he added, “some one maybe listening.” 

“TeU me first what j^our intentions are,” said th© 
notary. 

At the end of ten minutes Madame Cibot — who was 
visible to Pons in a mirror — saw the will sealed, after 
the notary had examined it and Schmucke had lighted 


326 


Cousin Pons. 


a candle. Pons next handed the document to Schmucke, 
telling him to put it away in a private drawer in the 
secretary. The testator then asked for the key of the 
drawer, tied it in a corner of his handkerchief, and put 
the handkerchief under his pillow. The notary — ap- 
pointed executor by courtesy, and to whom Pons left a 
valuable picture (one of the things the law permits a 
notary to accept) — then left the room, and found Ma- 
dame Cibot in the salon. 

“Well, monsieur,” she said, “ has Monsieur Pons 
remembered me?” 

“ My dear woman, you surely don’t expect a notary to 
betray the secrets that are confided to him ? ” answered 
Monsieur Trognon. “ All that I can tell you is that 
rapacity and covetousness will be foiled, and a great 
many hopes baffled. Monsieur Pons has made an ad- 
mirable will, full of good sense, — a patriotic will, of 
which I highly approve.” 

It is diflScult to imagine the pitch of curiosity to which 
Madame Cibot was excited by these words. She went 
down to pass the night at Cibot’s bedside, resolved to 
put Mademoiselle R^monencq in her place at two 
or three o'clock in the morning, and return to Pons’s 
appartement and read the will. 


iJoustn Fotis. 


327 


XXV. 

THE FICTITIOUS WILL. 

The visit of Mademoiselle Helolse Brisetout at half- 
past ten at night seemed natural enough to Madame 
Cibot ; but she was so alarmed lest the danseuse should 
speak of the thousand francs given b3^ Gaudissard that 
she accompanied her upstairs with all the flattery and 
politeness due to a sovereign. 

“Ah! my dear, you are ver^’ much better on your 
own ground than at the theatre,’^ said Heloise as they 
mounted the stairs ; “I advise you to stay where 3’ou 
are.” 

Heloise, escorted in a carriage by Bixiou, who was 
just then the friend of her heart, was magnificently at- 
tired, for she was going to a soiree given by Mariette, 
one of the illustrious leading-ladies of the opera. Mon- 
sieur Chapoulot, a former fringe-maker in the rue Saint- 
Denis, the tenant of the first floor, who was just returning 
from the Ambigu-Comique with his wife and daughter, 
was dazzled, and his wife also, by meeting such a 
toilette and such a pretty woman on the staircase. 

“Who is it, Madame Cibot?” asked Madame 
Chapoulot. 

“ She ain^t no account! You can see her skipping 
half-naked any night for forty sous,” whispered the 
Cibot in reply. 


328 


Cousin Pons. 


“ Victorine ! ” cried Madame Chapoulot, “ my little 
girl, let madame pass at once ! ” 

The cry of the alarmed mother was understood by 
Heloise, who turned round. 

“ Is your daughter more inflammable than tinder, ma- 
dame, that you are afraid she will take fire from me ? ” 

Heloise looked at Monsieur Chapoulot with an agree- 
able air, and smiled. 

“On my word, she is very pretty oflT the stage!” 
said Monsieur Chapoulot, lingering on the landing. 

Madame Chapoulot pinched her husband till he cried 
out, and pushed him into their appartement. 

“ Dear me 1 ” said Heloise, “ this second floor seems 
as high as a fourth.” 

“ Madame is, however, accustomed to heights,” re- 
marked the Cibot, opening the door of the appartement. 

“ Well, old man,” said Heloise, entering the bedroom 
where the poor musician was lying, pale and shrunken, 
upon his bed, “so you are not very well? Every- 
body at the theatre is anxious about you ; but j^ou 
know how it is, people may have good hearts, and 
yet the}’ have their own aflairs to attend to. There ’s 
Gaudissard, he has been talking of coming to see you 
day after day, and every morning he is caught by some 
business or other. But we all love you.” 

“Madame Cibot,” said the sick man, “have the 
goodness to leave me alone with mademoiselle ; we 
have some theatrical business and my place in the or- 
chestra to talk about. Schmucke will show madame 
the way out.” 

Schmucke, at a sign from Pons, opened the door for 
the Cibot and slipped the bolt behind her. 


Cousin Pons, 


329 


“Ah! the German blackguard! he is getting cor- 
rupted too, is he ? ” said Madame Cibot, hearing the 
significant sound. “It’s Monsieur Pous has taught 
him that ! You shall pay me dear for it, mj^ little 
friends,” she thought to herself as she went down the 
stairs. “ Bah ! if that butterfly of a ballet-girl tells ’em 
about the thousand francs, I ’ll swear it ain’t nothing 
but a theatre joke.” 

And she sat down beside Cibot, who was complaining 
of his burning stomach, for Remonencq had given him 
something to drink in his wife’s absence. 

“ My dear child,” said Pons to the danseuse, while 
Schmucke was getting rid of the Cibot, “I can trust 
no one but you to send me a notary, an honest man 
who must be here to-morrow morning at nine o’clock 
punctually, to make my will. I want to leave all I have 
to my friend Schmucke. If the poor German should be 
persecuted in consequence of it, I shall rely on that 
notar}^ to advise him and defend him ; that is why I 
want one of reputation, — a rich man, above all those con- 
siderations which tempt ordinary lawyers ; for my poor 
friend will need a strong supporter. I don’t trust Ber- 
thier, the son-in-law of Cardot. And you, who know so 
many people — ” 

“ I know just what you want,” said Heloise : “ there ’s 
the notary of Florine, the Comtesse du Bruel, Leopold 
Hannequin, — a virtuous man, who does n’t know what 
a lorette is. He is like a fairy godfather, a worthy soul 
who won’t let you commit any follies with the money 
you earn. I call him the father of figurantes ; for he 
has inculcated principles of economy in all my friends. 
In the first place, my dear, he has an income of sixty 


330 


Cousin Pons, 


thousand francs besides his practice. Then he is a no- 
tary such as notaries used to be in the olden time. He 
is a notar 3 ' waking or sleeping, walking or sitting still ; 
he has given birth to positivelv" none but little notaries 
and little notaresses. He is a heavy, pedantic man ; 
but he won’t ^deld to any influence whatever when he is 
in the exercise of his functions. He has never had a 
female drain upon him ; he is a fossil father of a famih" I 
His wife adores him and does n’t deceive him, though 
she is a notary’s wife ! There is n’t an^’thing better in 
Paris in the wa^" of a notary-. He ’s patriarchal ; he 
is n’t so amusing as Cardot was with Malaga, but he 
won’t run away like that little What ’s-his-name who 
lived with Antonia. I ’ll send him to-morrow morning 
at nine o’clock. Sleep in peace. Besides, I hope 3 ’ou 
are going to get well, and make us some more pretty' 
music, — though, after all, life is sad enough ; managers 
shilly-shall}", kings save their money, ministers hatch 
plots, and rich men are getting economical. Artists 
have nothing to rely on but that ! ” she said, striliing her 
heart. “ Yes, it is time to die. Adieu, old fellow ! ” 

“H41oise, I ask you, above all things, to be silent 
about all this.” 

“ It is not a theatre matter,” she said, “ so it ’s sacred 
to an artist.” 

“ Who is 3 ^our monsieur, little one? ” 

“ The mayor of your arrondissement, Monsieur Bau- 
doj^er, as stupid a man as the late Crevel ; would you 
believe that Crevel, one of Gaudissard’s old stock-com- 
pany, died the other day, and actuaU}^ left me nothing, 
not so much as a pot of pomatum ! That ’s what makes 
me say that our epoch is disgusting.” 


Cousin Pons. 


331 


“ What did he die of ? 

“ His wife. If he had stayed with me he would be 
alive now. Well, good-by, my dear old fellow ! I talk 
to you about departing this life because I know in 
ten days I shall see you lounging along the boulevard 
and ferreting after your pretty curiosities : you are 
not ill, for your eyes are brighter than I ever saw 
them.’’ 

And H41oise went away, certain that her proteg4 Ga- 
rangeot was secure in his place as leader of the orches- 
tra. Garangeot was her cousin. All the doors on the 
staircase were ajar, and all the households a-foot to see 
the leading danseuse pass out. It was a great event in 
that establishment. 

Fraisier, like a bull-dog, which never lets go the morsel 
he gets between his teeth, was stationed in the porter’s 
lodge beside Madame Cibot when Mademoiselle Helbise 
passed under the porte-cochere and called for the door. 
He knew the will was made, and had just questioned 
his accomplice ; for Maitre Trognon declined to say 
a word about it to him as well as to Madame Cibot. 
Naturally the man of law noticed the danseuse, and 
inwardly determined to make some use of this visit in 
extremis. 

“My dear Madame Cibot,” said Fraisier, “this is 
a very critical moment for you.” 

“ Ah, yes!” she said. “ My poor Cibot! just sup- 
pose he shouldn’t live to enjoy what I’m going to 
get!” 

“The question is, has Monsieur Pons left you any- 
thing? That is, are you mentioned in the will at all, oi 
have you been forgotten?” continued Fraisier. “I 


B32 


Cousin Pons. 


represent the natural heirs, and you will get nothing 
from them in any case. The will is in his own hand- 
writing ; it is, therefore, easily attacked. Do you know 
where the old man put it? ” 

“ In the private drawer of his secretary ; and he took 
the key,” she answered, “ tied it in a corner of his hand- 
kerchief, and put the handkerchief under his pillow. I 
saw it all.” 

“Was the will sealed up? ” 

“ Alas, yes ! ” 

“ It is a crime to abstract a will and suppress it, but 
it is only a misdemeanor to look at it ; and, anyhow, 
that would n’t be much, — a peccadillo, without wit- 
nesses. Does the old man sleep heavily?” 

“Yes; but that day when j^ou were examining and 
valuing the things, and he ought to have slept like a 
dormouse, did n’t he go and wake up ? However, I ’ll 
see what can be done. I’m to relieve Monsieur 
Schmucke at four o’clock in the morning, and if you 
like to come then, you shall have the will in your 
own hands for ten minutes.” 

“Verj'good,” said Fraisier. “I’ll be here at four 
o’clock, and I ’ll knock very softly.” 

“ Mademoiselle Remonencq, who takes my place by 
Cibot, will know you are coming and pull the cord ; but 
you had better tap on the window, so as not to wake 
nobody.” 

“ All right,” said Fraisier. “ You will have a light, 
won’t you? A candle will be enough.” 

At midnight the poor German, overpowered by grief, 
was sitting in an arm-chair and gazing at Pons, whose 


Cousin Pons, 


333 


&ce, drawn like that of a dying man, showed signs of 
faintness after his exertion which seemed to threaten 
immediate dissolution. 

“ I think I have just strength enough to live until to* 
morrow evening,” said Pons philosophically. “My 
death will doubtless occur, my poor Schmucke, in the 
course of to-morrow night. As soon as the notary and 
your two friends have left me in the morning, you must 
go and fetch our good Abbe Duplanty, the vicar of the 
church of Saint-Frangois ; the worthy man does not 
know that I am ill. I wish to receive the holy sacra- 
ments to-morrow at midday — ” 

He made a long pause. 

“ God has not willed that life should be to me what I 
longed for,” continued Pons. “I could have loved a 
wife and children and family so well ! To be cherished 
by a few beings in a quiet home, was my sole ambition. 
Life is bitter to all ; I have seen others possessing that 
which I so vainly wished for, and they were not happy. 
At the close of life the good God let me find unhoped- 
for consolation by giving me a friend in thee. I have 
never undervalued or misjudged thee ; that is not upon 
my conscience. My good Schmucke, I have given thee 
my heart and all my powers of loving. Don’t weep, 
Schmucke, or I must be silent, and it is so sweet to 
talk to thee of us, — ourself. Had I listened to thy ad- 
vice, I stiU might live ! Had I left the world and my 
old habits, I should not have received these mortal 
wounds. But now I desire to think only of thee.” 

“ Toan ’d dink of me ! ” 

“ Do not oppose me ; listen to what I say, dear friend. 
Thou hast the innocence, the guileless nature of a child 


334 


Cousin Pons. 


that has never left its mother's side. I revere it ; I think 
that God himself takes care of beings like to thee. But 
men are wicked, and I must forewarn thee. Thou wilt 
lose thy noble faith, thy sacred credulity, that grace of 
spotless souls which belongs only to men of genius or 
to hearts like thine. Presently thou wilt see Madame 
Cibot, who watched us through the half-closed door; 
she will come here and take the will I made. I be- 
lieve the worthless creature will do this towards morn- 
ing, when she thinks we are asleep. Listen to me 
attentively, and follow my instructions to the letter. 
Do you hear me?” cried the sick man. 

Schmucke, overwhelmed with grief, and trembling 
frightfull}^ had let his head fall over on the back of his 
chair, and seemed to have fainted away. 

“ Yez, I hear you, pud as eef you vare a gra-ate 
tizdanze off. I zeem to zink into der doom — mit you ! ” 
said the German, crushed by his misery. He came 
nearer to Pons, took one hand which he held between 
his own, and offered an inward prayer. 

“ What are you murmuring to yourself in German? ” 
<isked Pons. 

“ I bray to Gott to dake us to heemzelf togedder,” 
he answered simply, when he had finished his prayer. 

Pons leaned over with difficult}^, for he suffered in- 
tolerable pain about the liver ; but he stooped until he 
touched Schmucke and kissed him on the forehead, 
shedding his soul, like a benediction, upon the fellow- 
creature, the lamb meekly lying at the feet of God. 

“ Listen to me, my good Schmucke ; you must obey 
the dying.” 

“ I leesten.” 


Cousin Pons. 


335 


“ There is an entrance between your room and mine 
through the little door in your alcove which opens into 
my cabinet.” 

“ Pud it ees all joked up mit bigchurs.” 

“ You must clear them out immediately, without 
making too much noise.” 

“ Yez.” 

“ Clear the passage at both ends, into your room and 
mine ; then leave your door ajar. When the Cibot 
comes to relieve your watch (and she is likely to come 
earlier than usual) you must go away as if to bed, and 
seem to be very tired. Try to put on a sleepy air. As 
soon as she settles in her chair, come through your door 
and keep watch, there, behind the little muslin curtain 
of the glass-door in my cabinet, and watch all that 
happens. You understand?” 

“I unterzdant; dat zinful greechur means to purn 
de vill.” 

“ I can’t say what she will do, but I know this, — 
you will never think her an angel again. Now, give 
me some music ; improvise ; make me happy with your 
inspirations : they will occup}" your mind, they will 
drive out its gloomy thoughts, and fill the sad night 
with poems.” 

Schmucke placed himself at the piano. Thus invoked, 
the inspiration came in a few moments, quickened by 
the quivering of grief and the agitation which it caused 
him j transporting the good German, as it ever did, 
beyond the confines of earth. Sublime themes came to 
him, on which he wrought his rhythmic fancies, sometimes 
with the sorrow and Raphaelesque perfection of Chopin, 
sometimes with the passion and Dantesque grandeur of 


386 


Cousin Fons, 


Liszt, — two musical organizations which approach the 
nearest to that of Paganini. Execution bi’ought to this 
degree of perfection puts the performer on the level of 
a poet ; he is to the composer what an actor is to an 
author, — a divine interpreter of things divine. During 
this night, as Schmucke sounded in the ear of Pons the 
coming harmonies of heaven, the delicious music which 
made the instruments of art fall from the hands of 
Saint Cecilia, he was at once Beethoven and Paganini, 
the creator and the interpreter. Inexhaustible as the 
nightingale, sublime as the sky beneath which it 
sings, rich and varied as the forest which it fills 
with the gurgle of its notes, he surpassed himself, 
and plunged the old musician, as he listened, into the 
ecstasy which Raphael painted, and the world goes to 
see at Bologna. 

The poem was interrupted b}" loud ringing. The maid 
of the tenant on the first floor came to beg Schmucke, 
in her master’s name, to put a stop to the racket. Mon- 
sieur, Madame, and Mademoiselle Chapoulot had been 
awakened, and could not go to sleep again ; and they 
begged to observe that the day was long enough to re- 
hearse theatrical music, and that no one ought to strum 
the piano all night in a house in the Marais. It was 
then three o’clock in the morning. At half-past three, 
as foretold by Pons, who really seemed to have heard 
the conference between Madame Cibot and Fraisier, the 
woman came up to relieve Schmucke. Pons gave his 
friend a look which meant: “ Did I not guess right?” 
and then he turned over and assumed the attitude of a 
man who was fast asleep. 

Madame Cibot had such firm belief in Schmucke’s 


Oousin Pons. 


337 


simplicity (a quality which is the chief means, as well 
as the chief reason, of the success of childhood’s strata- 
gems) that she did not suspect him of falsehood when 
he came up to her and said, with an air that was both 
gloomy and joyful, — 

“ Bons has hat a treadful naight; his eg-zidemend 
vas tiapolique ! I vas opliged to mek zome muzique to 
galm heem ; and der beoble pelow, dey zend vort dat 
I moost pe zilend ! It ees horriple ! it gon-zairns de 
laife of my frent. I am zo dired, zo dired, mit blay- 
ing der muzique all naight long dat I am re tty to trob 
dis mornings.” 

“ My poor Cibot, too, is very ill. Another day like 
yesterday, and there won’t be no hope for him. But 
what can one do ? It ’s the will o’ God ! ” 

“ You are zo goot, your zoul ees zo lofely, dat eef 
Zipod ties, ve vill lif togedder,” said the wily Schmucke. 

When simple and upright people begin to dissimulate, 
they are terrible, — absolutely like children, who lay 
their traps with the art of savages. 

Well, you go and sleep, my lad ! ” said the Cibot, 
“ your eyes are just starting out o’ your head, you ’re so 
tired. I will say, the one thing as could console me for 
losing Cibot is to think I should finish my days with 
a good man like you. You be easy ; I ’ll lead that 
Ma’ame Chapoulot a pretty dance ! I ’d like to know 
what right a retired shopkeeper has to set up such 
pretensions ! ” 

Schmucke established himself in his post of observa- 
tion. The Cibot had left the door of the appartement 
ajar ; and Fraisier, after entering, closed it very gently. 
He carried a lighted candle and a piece of extremely 
22 


338 


Cousin Pons, 


fine brass wire, with which to open the will. The Cibot 
had no difficulty in abstracting the handkerchief in 
which the key was knotted, and which was under Pons’s 
pillow ; for the sick man had carefully left the end of it 
in sight below the bolster, and he helped the woman’s 
manoeuvre by keeping his face to the wall and l3'ing in 
an attitude which made it easy to draw awa3^ the hand- 
kerchief. The Cibot went straight to the secretary, 
opened it, endeavoring to make as little noise as pos- 
sible, found the spring of the secret di'awer, and ran 
with the will in her hand into the salon. This last pro- 
ceeding puzzled Pons to the utmost. As for Schmucke, 
he was trembling from head to foot, as if he had com- 
mitted a crime. 

“ Go back to your post,” said Fraisier, receiving the 
will ; “for if he wakes up, he must see 3’ou there.” 

After unsealing the envelope with an adroitness which 
proved that it was not his first attempt, Fraisier was 
plunged into profound astonishment by the perusal of 
the following remarkable document : — 

“THIS IS MY WILL. 

“ To-day, April fifteenth, eighteen hundred and forty-five, 
I, being of sound mind, as this will, written in presence of 
Monsieur Trognon, notary, will prove, feeling that I am 
about to die of the disease which attacked me in the early 
part of February last, and desiring to dispose of all my prop- 
erty, hereby make known my last wishes as follows : — 

“I have always been struck with the perils which often 
injure and sometimes destroy the great masterpieces of the 
painter’s art. I have pitied noble pictures condemned to 
travel from country to country, never stationary in any one 
place where their admirers might go to see them. I have 


Cousin Pons, 


339 


long thought that those immortal pages of the famous masters 
ought to be the property of nations, kept incessantly before 
the eyes of the peoples, like light itself, God’s own master- 
piece, which shines for all his children. 

“ And whereas, having passed my life in choosing and col- 
lecting pictures by the greatest masters, which pictures are 
genuine, not repainted, nor even retouched, I have thought 
with pain that these treasures, which have made the happi- 
ness of my life, might come to the hammer, and go to Eng- 
land or to Russia, dispersed and scattered as they were before 
they came together in my possession ; I have therefore re- 
solved to save them from such peril ; also to save the mag- 
nificent frames which inclose them, and which are all by the 
best workmen. 

“ With such motives, therefore, I give and bequeath to the 
King, to make part and parcel of the Musee du Louvre, 
the pictures of my collection, on condition, in case the legacy 
be accepted, that he shall pay to my friend Wilhelm Schmucke 
an annuity of two thousand four hundred francs. 

“ If the King, as usufructuary of the Musee, does not ac- 
cept the legacy on this condition, then the said pictures are 
to form part of the bequest which I hereby make to my friend 
Schmucke of all the property of which I die possessed, direct- 
ing him to give my Monkey’s Head by Goya to my cousin 
the president Camusot ; the flower-piece of tulips by Abraham 
Mignon to Monsieur Trognon, notary (whom I appoint my 
executor) ; and to pay Madame Cibot, who has had charge of 
my household for the past ten years, a yearly sum of two 
hundred francs. 

And, finally, I request my friend Schmucke to give my 
Descent from the Cross by Rubens — the sketch of his 
famous picture at Antwerp — to my parish church, for the 
decoration of a chapel, in gratitude for the kindness shown 
to me by Monsieur le vicaire Duplanty, to whom I owe the 
privilege of dying as a Christian and a Catholic, etc., etc.’* 


340 


Cousin Pons. 


“ It is ruin ! ” said Fraisier to himself; “ the ruin of 
all my hopes ! Ah ! I begin to believe what Madame 
de Marville told me about the old fellow’s malignity — ” 

“ Well? ” said the Cibot, coming in. 

“ Your old man is a monster ! He has given every- 
thing to the Musee, — to the State ! It is n’t possible 
to bring a suit against the State. The will can’t be 
broken. We are robbed, ruined, plundered, assassi- 
nated ! — ” 

‘‘ What has he left to me? ’’ 

“ Two hundred francs a year.” 

“A fine bequest, indeed I Why, he *s an out-and- 
out rascal ! ” 

“ Go in,” said Fraisier, “ and I’ll put your rascal’s 
will back into its envelope.” 


Coudn Pons* 


341 


XXVI. 

IN WHICH THE WOMAN SAUVAGE REAPPEARS. 

As soon as Madame Cibot’s back was turned, Frasier 
rapidly substituted a sheet of blank paper in place of 
the will, which he put into his pocket ; then he fastened 
the envelope so cleverly that he showed the seal to 
Madame Cibot when she returned, and asked her if she 
could see the slightest trace of the operation. The 
Cibot took the envelope, felt it over, found it full, and 
sighed heavily. She hoped that Fraisier would have 
burned the fatal paper himself. 

“Well, what are we to do, my dear Monsieur 
Fraisier?” she demanded. 

“Ah! that’s your affair. As for me, I’m not an 
heir ; but if I had the slightest right to that,” he 
answered, pointing to the collection, “ I know very 
well what I should do.” 

“ That’s just what I ’m asking you,” said the Cibot, 
rather stupidly. 

“ There ’s a fire in the chimney-place,” said Fraisier, 
getting up to go awa3^ 

“ Any how, nobody but you and I would know it 1 ” 
said the Cibot. 

“ It can never be proved that a will existed,” re- 
turned the man of law. 

“ And 3:ou? what will you do? ” 


342 


Cousin Pons, 


“I? If Monsieur Pons dies without a wiU, I will 
guarantee you a hundred thousand francs.” 

“Oh, I know!” she said; “that’s all very well. 
People will promise mounds o’ gold ; but when they 
get hold o’ what they ’re after, and it comes to paying 
for it, don’t I know how they ’ll chop you down ! ” 

She stopped in time, for she was on the point of tell- 
ing Fraisier about her transaction with 6lie Magus. 

“I’m off,” said Fraisier. “ For your sake, it won’t 
do for me to be seen in this appartement ; but I ’ll meet 
you below in the lodge.” 

After closing the outer door, Madame Cibot returned 
with the will in her hand, fully determined to throw it 
into the fire ; but when she got back into the room and 
was moving towards the chimney, she was seized by 
both arms, and found herself in the grasp of Pons and 
Schmucke, who had been standing close to the wall on 
each side of the doorway. 

“ Ah ! ” screamed the Cibot. 

She fell flat on her face in horrible convulsions, 
whether real or pretended was never known. The 
sight made such an impression upon Pons that he was 
seized with deadly faintness, and Schmucke let the Cibot 
lie where she was while he put him back into his bed. 
The two friends trembled like persons who, in the exe- 
cution of a desperate purpose, have gone beyond their 
strength. When Pons was again in bed, and Schmucke 
had recovered his breath, they heard sobs. The Cibot, 
on her knees and dissolved in tears, was stretching 
out her hands to the two friends and supplicating them 
with a most expressive pantomime. 

“ It was pure curiosity ! ” she cried, seeing that the 


Cousin Pons, 


343; 


pair were noticing her; “indeed it was, my good 
Monsieur Pons : that ’s the failing o’ women. But I 
could n’t manage to read your will, and I ’ve brought it 
back — ” 

“Tebart! pegone!” cried Schmucke, springing to 
his feet, and drawing himself up to his full height in 
the majesty of his indignation. “ You aire a monzder ! 
you haf dried to gill my goot Bons. He vas raight I 
3' ou aire vorse dan a monzder — you aire a teffel ! ” 

The Cibot, seeing the horror which was painted on 
the honest German face, rose, proud as Tartufe, cast a 
glance at Schmucke which made him tremble, and went 
out, carrjring under her gown a glorious little picture bj' 
Metzu which Elie Magus had greatly admired and called 
“ a diamond.” The Cibot found Fraisier waiting for 
her in the lodge, devoutly hoping that she had burned 
the envelope and the blank paper he had substituted for 
the will; he was much astonished when he saw the 
convulsed face of his terrified client. 

“ What has happened? ” 

“ This has happened, my good Monsieur Fraisier, — 
that under pretence of giving me good advice and di- 
recting me what to do, you ’ve made me lose my annuity 
forever, and the good-will o’ both m3" gentlemen.” 

And she launched into one of those cataracts of words 
for which she had a genius. 

“ I don’t want any idle talk ! ” said Fraisier dr3"l3", 
stopping her short. “ What ’s happened? quick ! ” 

“ Well, it was thiswa3’ — ” and she related the scene 
that had just taken place. 

“ I had nothing to do with it,” said Fraisier. “ The 
two gentlemen doubted your honest3", or they would n’t 


344 


Oousin Pons. 


have set that trap ; they were waiting for j’ou, they 
had been watching you ! — You have n’t told me all,” 
added the man of law, casting a tigerish look at the 
woman. 

“I! — do you think I’m hiding things from you, 
after all that we have done together ! ” she said, 
trembling. 

“ But, my dear, I have done nothing reprehensible,” 
said Fraisier, showing plainly that he meant to denj' his 
nocturnal visit to the appartement of the two friends. 

The Cibot felt her hair stand on end, and a cold chill 
ran down her back. 

“ What do you mean? ” she cried, astounded. 

“It is a criminal matter: you can be charged with 
the abstraction of a will,” replied Fraisier, coldly. 

The Cibot gave a start of terror. 

“ Make your mind eas}’, I ’m your counsel,” he added. 
“ I only wish to show you how easy it would be, in one 
way or another, to bring about what I warned you of. 
Come, tell me what you have done to make that in- 
nocent German hide himself in that room and watch 
you.” 

“Nothing at all; it was only that affair the other 
day, when I faced Monsieur Pons down about his 
dreaming he’d seen you. Ever since that day my gen- 
tlemen have turned right round against me. And so, 
as I say, you are the cause of all my troubles ; for even 
if I did lose my control over Monsieur Pons, I was 
sure of the German, who was talking of marrying me — 
or living with me ; it’s all the same thing.” 

The explanation seemed so plausible that Fraisier was 
forced to accept it. 


Cousin Pons. 


345 


, “ Well, make yourself easy,” he said ; “ I have prom- 
ised you an annuity, and I shall keep my word. Up to 
this time, the affair was all hypothetical ; but now it 
is worth hard cash ; you shall not have less than 
twelve hundred francs a year. But remember, my dear 
Madame Cibot, that you have got to obey my orders, 
and execute them intelligently.” 

“ Yes, my dear Monsieur Fraisier,” said the woman, 
with servile submission, for she was completely crushed. 

“ Well, adieu ! ” returned Fraisier, leaving the lodge 
and carrying away with him the dangerous will. 

He went home joyouslj’, for the document was a 
powerful weapon. 

“ I ’ve got a strong security against Madame de Mar- 
ville,” he said to himself. “ If she takes it into her 
head not to keep her word to me, she shall lose the 
inheritance.” 

At daybreak, K^monencq, after opening his shop and 
leaving everything in charge of his sister, went, accord- 
ing to a custom he had lately adopted, to inquire for his 
good friend Cibot, and found Madame Cibot contem- 
plating the picture by Metzu, and asking herself why 
that little bit of painted wood should be worth so much 
money. 

‘ ‘ Ha ! ha ! ” said Remonencq, looking over her 
shoulder, “that’s the only one Monsieur Magus re- 
gretted not having ; he said if he only had that little 
thing, his happiness would be complete.” 

“ What will he give for it?” asked the Cibot. 

“ Now, if you ’ll promise to marry me in the year of 
your widowhood,” answered Remonencq, “I’ll engage 
to get you twenty thousand francs from Elie Magus ; 


346 


Cousin Pons, 


if you don’t marry me, you will never be able to get a 
thousand francs for it yourself.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ Because you would be obliged to give a receipt as 
the owner of it, and the heirs would claim it and bring 
a suit against you. If you are my wife, I shall sell it to 
Monsieur Magus, and nothing is required of a dealer 
but the entry in his books ; I shall enter the picture as 
sold to me by Monsieur Schmucke. Come, put it in 
my hands ! If your husband dies, 3'ou ’d be worried to 
death about it ; whereas nobody" will think it odd that 
I have got a picture. You know me well enough 
to trust me. Besides, if you like, I ’ll give you a 
receipt.” 

The criminal situation in which she was caught, com- 
pelled the rapacious woman to agree to the proposal 
which bound her for life to the Auvergnat. 

“You are right; bring me a receipt,” she said, put- 
ting the picture in a bureau drawer and locking it up. 

“ Neighbor,” said Remonencq in a low voice, draw- 
ing the Cibot to the threshold of the door, ‘ ‘ I see 
plainly that we can’t save our good Cibot ; Doctor 
Poulain gave him up last night, and said he could n’t 
outlive the day. It’s a great misfortune ; but, after 
all, 3"ou are not in j^our right place here. You ought 
to be in a fine curiosity-shop on the boulevard des Ca- 
pucines. Do you know that I ’ve laid bj" nearly' a hun- 
dred thousand francs in ten years ? And if 3"ou get as 
much more some day, I’ll engage to make your for- 
tune ; that is, if you are my wife. You will be a 
bourgeoise ; my sister shall wait upon you and do 
the housekeeping, and — ” 


Couiin Pons. 


347 


The tempter was interrupted by the heart-rending 
moans of the little tailor, whose death-agony was 
beginning. 

“ Go away ! ” said the Cibot ; “ you^re a monster to 
talk to me like that when my poor man is dying in such 
a state — ” 

“Ah! it"s because 1 love you,” said R^monencq; 
“ I can’t think of anything else.” 

“If you loved me, j^ou wouldn’t tell me so just 
now.” 

And Remonencq returned home quite sure of marry- 
ing the Cibot. 

At ten o’clock there was something like a tumult in 
and around the porter’s lodge, for the last sacraments 
were being administered to the little tailor. All his 
friends and the concierges, male and female, in the rue 
de Normandie and the adjacent streets crowded the 
lodge, the porte-cochere, and the pavement before the 
house. No one, therefore, paid the least attention to 
Monsieur Leopold Hannequin, who came with one of 
his clerks, nor to Schwab and Brunner, all of whom 
went up to Pons’s appartement without being seen by 
Madame Cibot. The concierge of the opposite house, 
from whom the notar}^ inquired on which floor Monsieur 
Pons lived, pointed out the appartement. As for Brun- 
ner, who came with Schwab, he had already been to the 
house to see the collection, and he passed in without a 
word, taking his companion with him. Pons formally 
revoked his will of the day before, and bequeathed his 
whole property to Schmucke. This act accomplished, 
Pons, after thanking Schwab and Brunner, and ear- 
nestly committing the interests of Schmucke to the care 


348 


Cousin Pons, 


of Monsieur Mannequin, became so exhausted in con- 
sequence of the wonderful energy he had displayed in 
the nocturnal scene with the Cibot, and also in this last 
act of his earthly life, that Schmucke begged Schwab to 
go at once and notify the Abbe Duplant}’, for Pons was 
asking for the sacraments, and he himself was unwilling 
to leave his friend’s side. 

Sitting at the foot of her husband’s bed, Madame 
Cibot had forgotten Schmucke’s breakfast, and in fact 
she had been turned out of their appartement by the 
two friends ; but the events of the morning, the spec- 
tacle of his friend’s resigned death — for Pons was 
leaving the world heroically — had so wrung Schmucke’s 
heart that he felt no hunger. 

Nevertheless, about two in the afternoon, having seen 
nothing of the old German, Madame Cibot, as much from 
curiosit}^ as from self-interest, begged Remonencq’s 
sister to go up and see if Schmucke wanted anything. 
At this moment the Abbe Duplanty, to whom the poor 
musician had made his last confession, was administering 
extreme unction. Mademoiselle Remonencq disturbed 
that ceremony by reiterated pulls at the bell. Pons 
having made Schmucke swear that he would admit no 
one (so great was his fear of being robbed), the old 
German let Mademoiselle Remonencq go on ringing, 
until, quite frightened, she went down and told Madame 
Cibot that Schmucke would not open the door. This 
marked circumstance was taken note of by Fraisier. 
Schmucke, who had never seen any one die, was about 
to encounter all the difficulties which surround a man in 
Paris when he has a corpse upon his hands and is, 
moreover, without help or representative or means of 


Cousin Pom. 


349 


succor. Fraisier, who knew that relations, if really 
afflicted, lose their heads at such a time, and who since 
morning had installed himself in the porter’s lodge, so 
as to be in constant communication with Doctor Pou- 
lain, now conceived the idea of himself directing all 
Schmucke’s proceedings. 

The following means were employed by the two 
friends, Fraisier and Poulain, to bring about this im- 
portant result. 

The beadle of the church of Saint-Fran9ois, a former 
dealer in glass-ware named Cantinet, lived in the rue 
d’Orleans in the house adjoining that of Doctor Poulain. 
Madame Cantinet, who collected the rent of the chairs at 
Saint-Fran9ois, had been treated gratuitously by Pou- 
lain, to whom she was naturally grateful, and to whom, 
also, she had often related her troubles. The two Nut- 
crackers, who attended the services at Saint-Fran9ois 
on Sundaj^s and fete-da^^s, were on good terms with 
the beadle, the verger, the dispenser of holy water, — 
in short, with the whole ecclesiastical militia called in 
Paris the “ lower clergj",” to whom the faithful are in 
the habit of giving small donations. Madame Cantinet 
therefore knew Schmucke as well as he knew her. The 
woman was afflicted with two sources of anxiety which 
enabled Fraisier to make a blind and involuntary instru- 
ment of her. Her son, passionately fond of the theatre, 
had refused a church career, in which he might have be- 
come a verger, and had made his appearance among the 
supernumeraries of the ballet at the Cirque-Olympique, 
where he led a disorderly life which greatl3^ distressed 
his mother, whose purse was often drained b}^ his forced 
loans. Moreover Cantinet himself, given over to lazF 


360 


Cousin Pons. 


ness and liquor, had been driven out of business by 
those vices. Far from correcting them, the unfoi’tunate 
man found fresh food for the two passions in his present 
employment as beadle ; he did no work, and drank with 
the men who brought the wedding-parties and drove 
the hearses, and also with the beggars whom the cure 
relieved, so that bj’ twelve o’clock in the day his face 
was usuall}' cardinal-colored. 

Madame Cantinet saw herself doomed to poverty in 
her old age after having, as she said, brought a fortune 
of twelve thousand francs to her husband. The history 
of her misfortunes, related a hundred times to Doctor 
Poulain, suggested to him the idea of using her to 
enable Fraisier to place Madame Sauvage with Pons 
and Schmucke as cook and servant of all work. To 
propose Madame Sauvage herself was impossible ; the 
distrust of the two Nut-crackers was fully roused, and 
the refusal to open the door to Mademoiselle Pemonencq 
proved it plainly enough to Fraisier’s mind. But it was 
evident to doctor and law3'er that the pious old mu- 
sicians would blindl3" accept any one proposed to them 
by the Abbe Duplanty. Madame Cantinet, according 
to their scheme, should be accompanied by’ Madame 
Sauvage ; and Fraisier’s servant, once there, was quite 
as good as Fraisier himself. 

When the Abbe Duplanty came down, he was detained 
a moment in the porte-cochere by* the concourse of Cibot’s 
friends, who were testifying their respect for the oldest 
and most esteemed concierge of the neighborhood. 

Doctor Poulain bowed to the abbe and took him 
aside, saying, — 

“lam going up to see that poor Monsieur Pons. He 


Cousin Pons, 


361 


may still recover : it is a question of his submitting to 
the operation of removing the stones which have formed 
in the bladder ; they can be felt, and they have induced 
an inflammation which will cause death, — though there 
may still be time to arrest it. You should use your in- 
fluence over your penitent and persuade him to submit 
to the operation ; I will answer for his life, provided 
nothing unfortunate intervenes during the operation.” 

“I will return as soon as I have carried the sacred 
vessels to the church,” said the Abbe Duplanty ; “for 
indeed Monsieur Schmucke needs religious support.” 

“ I have just learned that he is all alone,” said Pou- 
lain. “ The good German had a little altercation this 
morning with Madame Cibot, who has been their 
housekeeper for ten years. It is only a passing quarrel, 
no doubt ; but he must not be left alone, under the cir- 
cumstances, without help. It is a work of chant}" to 
look after him. Here, Cantinet,” said the doctor, call- 
ing up the beadle, “ ask your wife if she is willing to 
nurse Monsieur Pons and look after the housekeeping 
for Monsieur Schmucke for a few days in Madame 
Cibot’s place — in fact Madame Cibot, even without 
this quarrel, must have found a substitute. Madame 
Cantinet is a trustworthy woman,” added the doctor, 
addressing the Abbe Duplanty. 

“ You could not choose a better one,” answered the 
worthy priest; “ she has the confidence of the society 
for whom she lets chairs.” 

A few moments later. Doctor Poulain was noting at 
Pons's bedside the progress of the old man’s dissolution, 
while Schmucke was vainly imploring his friend to sub- 
mit to the operation. The old musician only answered 


352 


Cousin Pons, 


the poor German’s supplications by negative signs of 
the head, occasionally making impatient gestures. At 
last, gathering up his strength, he cast a terrible 
glance at Schmucke, and exclaimed: “Let me die 
in peace ! ” 

Schmucke nearly died of grief ; but he took the hand 
of his friend, kissed it softly, and held it between his 
own hands, endeavouring to transfuse his life once 
more into Pons. At that moment Doctor Poulain, hear- 
ing the bell ring, went to the door and admitted the 
Abbe Duplanty. 

“ Our poor patient,” said Poulain, “ is beginning his 
last agony. He will die in a few hours ; j^ou will 
probably have to send a priest to watch with the bod}" 
to-night. But we must now employ Madame Cantiuet 
and a helper to take charge of the appartement for Mon- 
sieur Schmucke. He is incapable of attending to any- 
thing : I fear for his reason ; and there is property here 
which ought to be looked after by trustworthy people.” 

The Abbe Duplanty, a good and worthy priest, guile- 
less and without suspicion, was struck by the justice 
of Doctor Poulain’s remarks, and he made a sign to 
Schmucke from the threshold of the death-chamber to 
come out and speak to him. Schmucke could not 
bring himself to let go the hand of Pons, which was 
cramped and clasped to his as if the d3"ing man were 
falling from a precipice and sought to fasten upon some- 
thing that might save him. But those about to die are 
often, as we know, a prey to hallucinations which 
impel them to seize ever3"thing about them, like people 
in haste to save their valuables at a fire ; and Pons 
suddenly released Schmucke’s hand to grasp the bed- 


Cou%in Pons. 


353 


clothes and draw them round his body, with a horrible 
and significant movement of haste and avarice. 

“What can you do, all alone, when your friend 
dies?” said the good priest to the German, who then 
came to him ; ‘ ‘ you have lost Madame Cibot — ” 

“ Matame Zipod ees a mondzder who has gilled 
Bons ! ” he said. 

“ But 3^ou must have some one with you,” interposed 
Doctor Poulain, “ for the corpse will have to be watched 
to-night.” 

“ I vill va-atch, I vill bray to Gott,” answered the 
innocent German. 

“ But 3^ou must eat ; who will cook for you ? ” said 
the doctor. 

“ Zorrow has daken avay mein abbedide,” said 
Schmucke, naively. 

“ But,” said Poulain, “ the death must be sworn to 
by witnesses, the body must be prepared for burial and 
sewn in a winding-sheet, the funeral must be ordered at 
the Pompes Funebres, the nurse who takes charge of 
the corpse and the priest who watches at night, must 
have their meals ; and how can 3’ou attend to such 
things all alone? People can’t be allowed to die like 
dogs in the capital of civilization.” 

Schmucke opened a pair of frightened eyes, and was 
seized with a momentary attack of madness. 

“ Pud Bons shall nod tie ! I vill zafe heems ! ” 

“ You can’t last much longer without sleep ; and who 
is there now to take 3"Our place ? There is still some- 
thing to do for Monsieur Pons ; he must have his 
drink, and his medicines.” 

“ Ah, dat ees drue ! ” said Schmucke. 

23 


354 


Cousin Pons. 


Well/* remarked the Abbe Duplanty, “I think 
t)f giving you Madame Cantinet, — an honest, worthy 
woman.** 

These details of the last duties to his friend so over- 
came Schmucke that he longed to die with Pons. 

“ He is a mere child,” said the doctor to the abb4. 

“ A ji-ild ! ’* repeated Schmucke mechanically. 

“ Come ! *’ said the vicar ; “I will go and speak to 
Madame Cantinet and send her to you.*’ 

“ Don’t give yourself that trouble,” said the doctor ; 
“ she is my neighbor, and I am now on my way home.” 

Death is like an invisible assassin with whom the 
dying struggle ; in the final contest they receive the 
last blows, they endeavor to strike back, they resist 
desperately. For Pons this supreme moment had now 
come ; he uttered groans, mingled with cries. Schmucke, 
the Abbe Duplanty, and Poulain ran to his side. Sud- 
denly, as the last stab reached his vitality and cut the 
thread which holds the soul to the bod}^ Pons regained, 
for a few moments, the perfect quietude which follows 
the dying struggle ; he came to himself ; the serenity 
of death was on his face, and he looked on those 
around him with a smile that was almost joyful. 

“ Ah ! doctor,” he said, “ I have suflered much ; but 
you are right, I am better now. Thanks, my good 
abbe ; I was missing Schmucke — ** 

“Schmucke has not eaten anj^thing since the night 
before last ; it is now four o’clock. You have no longer 
any one to look after you, and it would be dangerous 
to recall Madame Cibot — ** 

“ She is capable of anj^thing!” said Pons, showing 
his horror at the very name of the Cibot. “ You are 


Cousin Pons. 


355 


right ; Schmucke needs some honest person to look 
after him.” 

“ The Abbe Duplanty and I,” said the doctor, “ have 
been thinking about you both — ” 

“ Ah, thank you ! ” said Pons ; “ I did not reflect — ” 
And the abbe has suggested Madame C antinet — ” 

“ Who lets the chairs? ” cried Pons ; “ yes, an excel- 
lent creature.” 

“ She does not like Madame Cibot,” said Poulain, 
“ and she will take good care of Monsieur Schmucke.” 

“Send her to me, my good Monsieur Duplanty, 
she and her husband ; then I shall be easy : they will 
not rob me.” 

Schmucke had again laid hold of Pons’s hand, and was 
holding it joyfully, believing that life and health had 
come back to him. 

“ Let us go, monsieur I’abb^,” said the doctor. “ I 
will send Madame Cantinet at once ; I see how it is, — 
probably she will not find Monsieur Pons living.” 


356 


Cousin Pom, 


XXYIL 

DEATH AS IT IS. 

While the Abbe Duplanty was inducing the djdng 
man to employ Madame Cantinet, Fraisier had sent for 
the woman and subjected her to his corrupting talk and 
to the craft}^ influence ‘of his wily power, — a power 
which it was diflScult to resist. Madame Cantinet — a 
yellow, shrivelled woman with large teeth and pallid lips, 
dulled by misfortune, like man^" women of the lower 
classes, and reduced to And her whole happiness in petty 
daily profits — soon agreed to take Madame Sauvage 
with her as assistant in Pons’s household. Fraisier’s 
servant had already got her cue. She had promised to 
weave a wire net round the two musicians, and watch 
over them as a spider watches a captured flj’. Madame 
Sauvage was to receive in return for her trouble a 
license for the sale of tobacco. Fraisier thus found a 
means of getting rid of his pretended foster-mother, as 
well as of putting a sp}^ and a gendarme over Madame 
Cantinet. As the appartement of the two Nut-crackers 
had a small kitchen and a servant’s room, Madame 
Sauvage could sleep on the premises and cook for 
Schmucke. At the moment when the two women, 
brought by Doctor Poulain, presented themselves. Pons 
had just drawn his last breath ; but Schmucke was not 
aware of it, and he still clasped his friend’s hand. 


Couiin Pons, 


367 


though the warmth was leaving it by degrees. He 
motioned to Madame Cantinet not to speak ; but the 
soldierly bearing of Madame Sauvage astonished him so 
much that he made an involuntary gesture of fear, — 
to which, indeed, that male woman was accustomed. 

“ Madame,’" whispered Madame Cantinet, presenting 
her, ‘‘ is sent by Monsieur Duplanty. She has been 
cook to a bishop ; she is honesty itself : and she will do 
the cooking.” 

‘‘You can speak out loud,” said the powerful and 
asthmatic Sauvage; “the poor gentleman is dead: he 
has just gone.” 

Schmucke uttered a piercing cry ; he felt Pons’s icy 
hand stiffening within his own, and he sat with staring 
eyes looking fixedlj’ into those of Pons, whose expres- 
sion would have driven him mad if Madame Sauvage, 
doubtless accustomed to such scenes, had not gone to 
the bed and held a mirror to the dead man’s lips. As 
no breath clouded the glass, she hastil}^ separated 
Schmucke’s hand from that of the corpse. 

“ Let go, monsieur,” she said, “ or you won’t be able 
to get loose ; you don’t know what bones are when they 
harden. Dead bodies soon stiffen. If you don’t pre- 
pare them while they are still warm, you are sometimes 
obliged to break their limbs.” 

It was, therefore, this horrible woman who closed the 
poor musician’s eyes. Then, with the methodical habit 
of a sick-nurse, — a business she had followed for ten 
years, — she took off the dead man’s clothing, stretched 
him out at full length, fastened the hands to each side 
of the body, and drew the sheet over him, precisely as a 
shopman makes up a parcel of goods. 


358 


Cousin Pons* 


“I want a sheet to wrap him in: where can I get 
one ? ” she said to Schmucke, who was speechless with 
terror at the sight. To witness this species of packing, 
after watching the profound respect with which religion 
treats the creature destined to so glorious a future in 
the heavens, and to see his friend treated like a chattel, 
was an anguish fit to dissolve the very elements of 
thought. 

“ Dake vat you laike!” answered Schmucke me- 
chanicall3^ 

It was the first time the innocent creature had seen a 
man die, — and that man was Pons, the only friend, the 
only being who had ever understood and loved him ! 

“ Then I shall go and ask Madame Cibot where the 
sheets are,” said the Sauvage. 

“We must have a fiock-bed for this lady,” said Ma- 
dame Cantinet to Schmucke. 

Schmucke made a sign with his head, and burst into 
tears. Madame Cantinet left the poor soul in peace ; 
but at the end of an hour she returned, and said to 
him, — 

“ Monsieur, have you any money to give us to buy 
some necessary things ? ” 

Schmucke turned a look on Madame Cantinet that 
might have disarmed the most ferocious enemy ; he 
pointed to the white, sharp face of the dead as if it 
were the sole answer that could be given. 

“ Dake all, and led me mourn and bray,” he said, 
kneeling down. 

Madame Sauvage had gone to announce the death to 
Fraisier, who rushed in a cabriolet to Madame de Mar- 
ville and requested her to have the power of attorney, 


( 


Cousin Pons. 359 

which should give him the right of representing the 
heirs, ready for the morrow. 

“ Monsieur,” said Madame Cantinet to Schraucke an 
hour after her last question, “ I have been to see Ma- 
dame Cibot, who knows all about your household, and 
asked her to tell me where to find the things ; but she 
has just lost Monsieur Cibot, and she has half crazed 
me with her talk — Monsieur, please listen to me.” 

Schmucke looked at the woman, who had no concep- 
tion of her own cruelty ; for the lower classes habitually 
endure great mental griefs stolidly. 

“Monsieur, we must have linen for the winding- 
sheet, also we want money to buy a fiock-bed for the 
cook ; and we need kitchen-utensils, plates, dishes, 
glasses, for a priest will be here to-night, and there is 
absolutely nothing in the kitchen.” 

“ Yes, monsieur,” began the Sauvage, “ I must have 
wood and coal to prepare the dinner, and I don’t see 
any. It isn’t surprising, as it seems Madame Cibot 
supplied you with everything — ” 

“ My dear lady,” said Madame Cantinet, pointing to 
Schmucke, who lay at the dead man’s feet in a state of 
semi-insensibility, “you wouldn’t believe me, but you 
see for yourself he can’t answer anything.” 

“Well, my dear,” returned the Sauvage, “I’ll show 
you what ’s to be done in that case.” 

So saying, she cast about the room a look such as 
thieves cast when they try to guess the places where 
money is hidden. She went straight to Pons’s bureau 
and pulled out the top drawer, saw the bag in which 
Schmucke had put away the remainder of the money 
derived from the sale of the pictures, and showed 


360 


Cousin Pons. 


it to Schmucke, who made a sign of mechanical 
consent. 

‘ ‘ Here 's money, my dear,” said the Sauvage to Ma- 
dame Cantinet. “ I ’ll count it, and take as much as we 
shall want for wine and provisions and lights, — in 
short, everything ; for the}^ really have nothing at all. Do 
look in the drawer and see if you can find a sheet to 
wrap round the body. They told me the poor man was 
a simple creature ; but he ’s worse than that. I ’m sure 
I don’t know what he is, — a new-born babe ; and we 
shall have to feed him with a spoon.” 

Schmucke looked at the two women and at all they 
did, exactly as an idiot might have looked at them. 
Exhausted with grief, sunk into a state that was half 
cataleptic, he never ceased to contemplate the face of 
Pons, which held him by a spell as the lines grew purer 
and clearer in the peace of death . He hoped to die ; 
to all else he was indifferent. The room might have 
been in fiames, and he would not have stirred. 

“ There are twelve hundred and fifty-six francs,” said 
the Sauvage. 

Schmucke shrugged his shoulders. When the Sau- 
vage attempted to prepare the body for burial, and to 
measure the linen over it so as to cut out the winding- 
sheet and sew it on, a frightful struggle took place be- 
tween herself and the unfortunate German. Schmucke 
was like a dog who bites all who attempt to touch the 
body of his master. Madame Sauvage, getting impa- 
tient, seized him, thrust him into an arm-chair, and 
held him there with herculean power. 

“Come, my dear, sew up the corpse in the sheet 
while I hold him,” she said to Madame Cantinet. 


Cousin Pons, 


361 


When the operation was over, the Sauvage let 
Schmucke go back to his place at the foot of the bed, 
and said to him, — 

“Can’t 3"ou understand? We had to truss up the 
poor man properly, as a corpse.” 

Schmucke wept ; the two women left him and went 
to take possession of the kitchen, where, between them, 
they soon collected all the necessaries of life. After 
running up a preliminary bill of three hundred and sixty 
francs, Madame Sauvage prepared a dinner for four 
persons ; and what a dinner ! The pheasant of cobblers 
— a fat goose — was the solid dish ; then came a sweet 
omelet, a salad of vegetables, and the sacramental potr- 
au-feu^ whose ingredients were so extravagant in quan- 
tity that the broth was as thick as jelly. At nine o^clock 
in the evening the priest, sent by the vicar to watch 
beside the body of Pons, came with the beadle, Canti- 
net, who brought four wax-tapers and the church candle- 
sticks. The priest found Schmucke lying at full length 
on the bed beside his friend, holding him tightly clasped 
in his arms. It required the authority of religion to 
induce Schmucke to part from the body. He fell on 
his knees, and the priest sat down comfortably in an 
arm-chair. While the latter read his prayers, and 
Schmucke, kneeling before the body of Pons, besought 
God to reunite him to his friend by a miracle, that he 
might be buried in the same grave, Madame Cantinet 
went to the Temple and bought a flock-bed and bedding 
all complete for Madame Sauvage, making havoc in 
the twelve hundred and fifty-six francs discovered in the 
bureau drawer. At eleven o’clock at night Madame 
Cantinet came to see if Schmucke would eat a morsel 


862 


Comin Pons, 


The German made signs that he was to be left in 
peace. 

“ Your supper is ready, Monsieur Pastelot,’’ she said 
to the priest. 

Schmucke, left alone, smiled like a madman who sees 
that he is free to accomplish a desire comparable only 
to the longing of a pregnant woman. He flung himself 
beside Pons and held him once more tightly clasped. 
The priest came back at midnight and rebuked 
Schmucke, who let go his grasp and returned to prayer. 
At daybreak the priest went away. At seven o’clock 
in the morning Doctor Poulain came to see Schmucke, 
and kindly tried to make him eat; but the German 
refused. 

“ If you eat nothing now, you will feel hungry when 
you return,” said the doctor ; “ foj* you must go to the 
mayor’s oflSce, with some one who can identify you, to 
declare the decease of Monsieur Pons and get the burial 
certiflcate.” 

“ I ! ” exclaimed the German, terrified. 

“ Who should it be? You were the only person who 
saw him die.” 

“ I haf no zdrengd,” answered Schmucke, imploring 
pity of Doctor Poulain. 

“ Take a carriage,” said the hypocritical doctor, 
gentty. “ I have made out the certificate of the death. 
Get some one about the house to accompany you. 
These two women will take care of the rooms in youi* 
absence.” 

It is diflScult to imagine what these vexations of the 
law are to a real grief, — enough, surely, to make us 
hate civilization, and prefer the customs of savages. At 


Cousin Pons. 


363 


nine o^clock Madame Sauvage brought Schmucke down- 
stairs, holding him under the arms, and he was obliged, 
when he got into the hackney-coach, to ask Remonencq 
to accompany him and declare the death at the mayor’s 
office. Wherever we turn, and in all matters, inequality 
of conditions is manifest in Paris, — a city drunk with 
the idea of equality ! This immutable force of circum- 
stances is seen even in the events attending a death. In 
wealthy families, a relation, a friend, a business agent, 
spares the mourners all knowledge of the hideous de- 
tails ; but in this, as in the assessment of taxes, the 
masses, the proletaries, have to bear the burden of 
such horrors without assistance. 

“Ah! you’ve good reason to regret him,” said 
Remonencq as a groan escaped the poor martyr ; “ he 
was a very worthy man, a very honest man, who has 
left behind him a fine collection. But don’t you see, 
monsieur, you, who are a stranger here, are likely to 
get into a deal of trouble? — for they say Monsieur 
Pons has left you everything.” 

Schmucke was not listening ; he was plunged in such 
grief that he was very nearly out of his mind. The 
soul has its lock-jaw as well as the body. 

“You ought to be represented by a lawyer or a 
business agent.” 

“Peazenez achend,” repeated Schmucke mechani- 
cally. 

“You ’ll see that you’ll have to get some one to act 
for you. If I were you, I should find some man of 
experience, a man known in the neighborhood, a trust- 
worthy man. I myself, in my little business, I employ 
Tabareau, the sheriflTs officer. If you give a power of 


364 


Cousin Pons, 


attorney to his head-clerk you will have no anxiety 
yourself.” 

This suggestion, first made by Fraisier, and approved 
by Remonencq and the Cibot, stuck in Schmucke’s mem- 
ory ; for in certain moments, when grief congeals the 
soul, as it were, and arrests its functions, the memory 
retains impressions which mere accident has imprinted 
upon it. Schmucke heard Remonencq, though he con- 
tinued to look at him with an qjq so devoid of intelli- 
gence that the Auvergnat said no more. 

“ If he is such an imbecile as that,” thought Remon- 
encq, “ I shall be able to buy the whole heap of those 
things upstairs for a hundred thousand francs, — that is, 
if they are really his — Monsieur, here we are at the 
mayor’s office.” 

Remonencq was forced to lift Schmucke out of the 
coach and support him under the arms to get him into 
the office for civil certificates, where Schmucke found 
himself in the midst of a wedding-party. The poor 
German was a prey to an anguish like that of the 
Saviour of men. 

“ Is this Monsieur Schmucke? ” asked a man in black 
clothes, addressing the German, who was bewildered at 
hearing his own name. 

“Well,” said Remonencq, “what do you want 
with him ? Let him alone ; don’t you see he is in 
trouble ? ” 

“ Monsieur has just lost his friend, and doubtless 
wishes to honor his memory in a worthy manner, as 
the property is left to him,” said the stranger. “ Mon- 
sieur will certainly not be parsimonious ; he will of 
course buy a grave in perpetuity. Monsieur Pons was 


Cousin Pons, 


365 


a lover of art : it would be a pity not to put upon his 
tomb a group of Music, Painting, and Sculpture, — three 
fine figures represented as weeping — ” 

Remonencq made the gesture of an Auvergnat to 
drive the man away ; but the man replied by another 
gesture, meaning, “ Let me alone ; I know what I am 
about,” which the other understood. 

“ I am an agent for the house of Sonet & Co., con- 
tractors for mortuary monuments,” resumed the runner, 
whom Walter Scott might have called “ the young man 
of the tombs.” “If monsieur would be pleased to 
give us an order, we will save him the annoyance of 
going to the cemetery to buy the ground necessary 
for the burial of the friend now lost to him and to the 
arts — ” 

Remonencq nodded his head in assent, and nudged 
Schmucke with his elbow. 

“We take charge of all these formalities every day 
for many families,” said the man, encouraged by the 
Auvergnat’s nod. “ In the first moments of grief it is 
so hard for an heir to attend to such details himself, and 
we are glad to do these little services for our customers. 
The price of our monuments, monsieur, is regulated by 
a tariff, — so much a foot in free-stone, so much in mar- 
ble. We also dig the graves for family tombs, — in 
short, we undertake the whole affair, at reasonable 
prices. Our house put up the magnificent monument 
over the beautiful Esther Gobseck, also that of Lucien 
de Rubempre, which is one of the finest ornaments of 
Pere-Lachaise. We employ the best workmen — I 
advise monsieur to beware of the small undertakers, 
who do things in a shabby way,” he added, observing 


366 


Cousin Pons, 


that another man in black was bearing down upon 
them, in the interests of another house of monumental 
sculpture. 

It has often been said that death is the end of a 
journey ; few persons realize how close the parallel is in 
Paris. The dead man, above all if he was a man of 
quality, is greeted on the sombre shore as though he 
were a traveller arriving at his destination, where all 
the runners of the various hotels harass him with their 
recommendations. No one, if we except certain phi- 
losophers and a few families sure of being long-lived, 
who build themselves tombs just as thej^ build them- 
selves houses, ever thinks of death and its attendant 
consequences. Death alwa3^s comes too soon ; more- 
over, a feeling, easily understood, keeps the survivors 
from supposing it possible. Therefore nearly" all who 
lose father, mother, wife, or children, are immedi- 
ately assailed by those interested in the business of 
death, and who profit by the bewilderment of grief to 
obtain an order for their services. In former times 
the agents for sepulchral monuments used to group 
themselves in the vicinit}* of the famous cemeterj^ of Pere- 
Lachaise, where they formed a lane called the “ Street 
of Tombs,” and assailed the heirs as they left the grave 
or the gates of the cemeter^' ; but, little by little, com- 
petition, the genius of speculation, has pushed them to 
greater assurance, and they have now established them- 
selves in the neighborhood of the mayor’s offices. In 
fact, these runners, with the plan of a tomb in hand, 
often work their way into the house of death. 

“lam doing business with monsieur,” said the agent 
for the Maison Sonet to the new-comer. 


Cousin Pons, 367 

“ Pons, deceased ! ** called out the clerk. “ Where 
are the witnesses? 

“ Come, monsieur,” said the mortuary agent, ad- 
dressing Remonencq. 

Remonencq requested the man to lift Schmucke, who 
was sitting like an inert mass upon a bench, and to- 
gether they led him to a balustrade, behind which the 
clerk who drew up the certificates for burial sheltered 
himself from the rush of public grief. Remonencq, who 
was now Schmucke’s protector, was reinforced at this 
moment by Doctor Poulain, who came to give the nec- 
essary information as to the age and birthplace of Pons. 
The signatures once appended, Remonencq and the 
doctor, followed by the runner, carried the poor Ger- 
man back to the coach, into which the eager agent, 
determined to obtain the coveted order, managed to 
slip. The Sauvage, who was watching on the steps ot 
the porte-cochere, took Schmucke, half fainting, in her 
arms, and with the help of Remonencq and the man 
from the Maison Sonet, got him upstairs. 

“He is going to be ill,” said the runner, who was 
bent on ending his own affair satisfactorily. 

“I should think so!” returned Madame Sauvage; 
“ he has wept for twenty-four hours, and won’t 
eat anything. Nothing destroys the stomach like 
grief.” 

“ Now, my dear client,” said the runner to Schmucke, 
“ take a little broth. You have so many things to do ; 
you must go to the H6tel de Ville and buy the grave 
over which you intend to erect a monument to that 
friend of the arts which shall testify your gratitude — ” 

“ Why, he ought to have more sense,” said Madame 


368 


Cousin Pons. 


Cantinet, coming in at the moment with the broth and 
some bread. 

“ My dear monsieur,” said Remonencq, “if you are 
so feeble, you ought really to get some one to represent 
you ; for you have a host of things to do. You must 
order the funeral procession : you don’t want your friend 
to be buried like a pauper ? ” 

“ Come, come, my good monsieur,” said the Sauvage, 
seizing a moment when Schmucke’s head fell on the 
back of the chair to pour a spoonful of soup into his 
mouth, and continuing to feed him like an infant, in 
spite of himself. “There, now 3"Ou are sensible, 
monsieur ; and if you wish to give wa}- to your grief 
quietly, you must choose some one to represent 
you — ” 

“As monsieur intends to erect a fine monument to 
his friend,” said the runner, “he need onl^r put the 
whole matter into my hands, and I will attend to it — ” 

“What’s that? what’s that?” cried the Sauvage. 
“ Has monsieur given 3"ou an^* orders ? Who are ^you ? ” 

“ An agent for the house of Sonet & Co., my good 
lady ; the largest establishment for monumental statu- 
ary in Paris,” answered the man, pulling out a card 
and presenting it to the powerful Sauvage. 

“Ah! very good, very good; you’ll be sent for 
when the}^ think proper. You can’t take advantage of 
the state monsieur is in. You see very plainly that he 
is out of his mind — ” 

“ If you will manage to get us the order,” whispered 
the agent of the Maison Sonet in the ear of Madame 
Sauvage as he drew her out upon the landing, “ I am 
able to oflfer 3"OU forty francs.” 


Cousin Pons, 


369 


“ Well, give me your address,” said the Sauvage, be- 
coming civilized. 

Schmucke, finding himself alone, and really feeling 
better for his forced meal of broth and bread, returned 
quickly to the side of Pons and again knelt down to 
pray. He was lost in the abysses of his grief, when he 
was roused from the void, as it were, by a young man 
dressed in black, who said to him for the eleventh 
time, — 

“ Monsieur ! ” 

The poor mart3T heard the call because he was 
twitched by the sleeve of his coat. 

“Vat ees id now?” he asked. 

“Monsieur, we owe to Dr. Gannal a sublime dis- 
covery. We do not deny his glory ; he has restored to 
practice the miracles of ancient Egypt. Nevertheless, 
we have made improvements by which we obtain aston- 
ishing results. Therefore, if you wish to see your friend 
as he was in life — ” 

“Zee heems — in laife ! ” cried Schmucke. “ Vill 
he spick to me?” 

‘ ‘ Not absolutely — speech itself will be absent,” re- 
plied the agent for embalming; - “but he will remain 
through all eternity such as the art of embalming will 
show him to you. The operation will take only a 
few minutes. An incision into the carotid artery, 
and one injection suflEices. But there ’s no time to be 
lost ; if you wait half an hour longer you will lose 
the tender satisfaction of preserving the body of your 
friend.” 

‘ ‘ Pegone ! der tefifel dake you ! Bons ees a zoul, 
und dat zoul ees een de zkies,” 

24 


370 


Cousin Pons, 


“ The man has n’t a bit of gratitude,” said the young 
rival of Dr. Gannal as he went through the porte- 
cochere ; “he refuses to have his friend embalmed.” 

“What can you expect, monsieur?” said Madame 
Cibot, who had just had her darling embalmed. “ He ’s 
the legatee ; now that he ’s got all he wanted, the 
deceased ain’t nothing to him.” 


CouBin Pons. 


371 


XXVIII. 

schmucke’s martyrdom continued ; showing how 

PEOPLE DIE IN PARIS. 

An hour later, Schmucke saw Madame Sauvage enter 
the room, followed by a man in black who appeared to 
be a workman. 

“ Monsieur,” she said, “ Cantinet has been good 
enough to send you this person, who supplies the coflSns 
for the parish.” 

The coflan-maker bowed with an air of condolence 
and commiseration, but like a man sure of his position 
and aware that he is indispensable. He looked at the 
body with the eye of a connoisseur. 

“How does monsieur wish to have it?” he said. 
“In common wood, or plain oak, or oak lined with 
lead? Oak lined with lead is very stylish. The body 
seems to have the ordinary dimensions.” 

He felt for the feet, so as to measure the body. 

“ One metre, seventy,” he added. “ Monsieur no 
doubt intends to order a funeral service at the 
church?” 

Schmucke flung a look at the man such as madmen 
dart when they are about to make an attack. 

“Monsieur,” said Madame Sauvage, “you really 
must employ some one to attend to all these details for 
you.” 


372 


Cousin Pons. 


“ Yez,” said the victim at last. 

“Do you want me to go and fetch Monsieur Taba- 
reau ? for ^^ou ’ll have many more things on your shoul- 
ders presently. Monsieur Tabareau, let me tell you, 
is the most honest man in the neighborhood.” 

“ Yez, Monsir Dapareau, dey tid spick to me of 
heems,” answered the vanquished Schmucke. 

“Very good; monsieur shall be left in peace, and 
free to indulge his grief, when he has once had a talk 
with an agent and given him full powers.” 

About two o’clock the head-clerk of Monsieur Taba- 
reau, a young man who considered that he was destined 
to the career of sheriff, modestly presented himself. 
Youth has amazing privileges ; it excites no alarm. 
The young man sat down beside Schmucke and waited 
for the right moment to speak to him. This considera- 
tion touched Schmucke. 

“Monsieur,” said the youth, “I am the head-clerk 
of Monsieur Tabareau, who has sent me here to look 
after your interests and attend to all the details of the 
funeral. Is it your wish that I should do so ? ” 

“ You gannod za-afe my laife, I haf nod long to leef ; 
pud vill 3"ou led me tie in beace ? ” 

“ You shall not be troubled,” answered Villemot. 

“ Denn, vat moost I do? ” 

“ Sign this paper, in which you appoint Monsieur 
Tabareau j^our proxy in all matters concerning the 
inheritance.” 

“ Gif it to me ! ” said the German, wishing to sign 
instant^. 

“ No, it is my duty to read over the instrument to 
you.” 


Cousin Pons. 


373 


“ Reet Idt” 

Schmucke paid not the slightest attention to the read- 
ing of what was a general power of attornej' ; and then 
he signed it. The young man took his orders for the 
funeral, for the purchase of the ground where Schmucke 
wished the grave to be, and also for the services at the 
church, assuring him that he should have no further 
trouble, and that no demands for monej^ should be made 
upon him. 

“To pe levd in beace, I vould gif all dat I boz-ezz,’* 
said the unfortunate man, who once more knelt down 
beside the body of his friend. 

Fraisier triumphed ; the legatee could not make one 
step outside the circle where the Sauvage and Villemot 
now held him fast. 

There is no grief that sleep cannot conquer. Towards 
evening the Sauvage found Schmucke lying asleep be- 
side the bed on which the body of Pons was stretched ; 
she carried him off, and laid him maternally in his own 
bed, where he slept until the morrow. When he woke, 
— that is to say when, after this truce, his sorrows re- 
turned upon him, — the body of Pons was l^dng in the 
porte-cochere, in the chapelle-ardente of a funeral of 
the third class ; he sought his friend in vain throughout 
the appartement, which seemed to him a vast loneliness 
filled only with cruel memories. Madame Sauvage, 
who managed Schmucke with the authority of a nurse 
over her suckling, compelled him to eat some breakfast 
before starting for the church. While the poor victim 
forced himself to swallow food, she called his attention, 
with lamentations worthy of Jeremiah, to the fact that 
he did not possess a black coat. Schmucke’s wardrobe, 


374 


Qomin Pon%» 


like his dinner, had come down, even before his friend’s 
illness, to its simplest expression, — two coats and two 
pairs of trousers. 

“You are not going as you are to the funeral? It 
would be an abomination that would disgrace you in 
the neighborhood ! ” 

“ How moost I CO?” 

“ In black.” 

“ Pla-ag ! ” 

“ Propriety requires — ” 

“ BrobriedjM I toan’d gare for any zooch non- 
zenze,” said the poor man, driven to the last pitch of 
exasperation to which suffering can force a childlike 
soul. 

“Wh}^, he’s a monster of ingratitude!” cried the 
Sauvage, turning to a man whose sudden appearance 
in the room made Schmucke shudder. 

This functionary, magnificently dressed in black 
cloth, with black knee-breeches and black-silk stock- 
ings, white cuffs, spotless white muslin cravat, white 
gloves, and wearing a silver chain, from which hung 
a medal, — an oflScial of the type of those who conduct 
all public obsequies, — held in his hand an ebony wand, 
and, beneath his left arm, a three-cornered hat with a 
tricolor cockade ; these were his insignia of office. 

“lam the master of ceremonies,” said this personage 
in a soft voice. 

Accustomed, in the daily exercise of his functions, to 
manage funerals and enter families plunged in afflic- 
tion, real or feigned, this man, in common with all his 
colleagues, spoke in a low voice, gently. He was 
decent, civil, and seemly by profession, — like a statue 


Cousin Pons. 


375 


representing the Spirit of Death. This announcement 
gave Schmucke a nervous shock, as though he had seen 
the executioner. 

“Monsieur is the son, the brother, or the father of 
the deceased ? ” inquired the official. 

“I am all dat, and more, — I am hees frent,” said 
Schmucke, with a burst of tears. 

“ Are you the heir ? ” asked the master of ceremonies. 

“Heir!” repeated Schmucke; “I toan’d gare for 
any ding in dis vorld.” 

“ Where are the relations? ” demanded the official. 

“Here, all of dem!” cried Schmucke, pointing to 
the pictures and the curiosities. “ Neffare, neffare 
tid dese relachions mek mein goot Bons creef ! Here 
ees all he lofed, mit me ! ” 

“ He is crazy, monsieur,” said the Sauvage to the 
master of ceremonies ; “ it is useless to listen to him.” 

Schmucke had reseated himself with an expression 
that was once more idiotic, as he mechanically wiped 
away his tears. At this moment Villemot, the head- 
clerk of Monsieur Tabareau, appeared ; and the master 
of ceremonies, recognizing the person who had called 
to order the funeral, turned to him and said : — 

“ Well, monsieur, it is time to start: the hearse is 
here ; but I have seldom seen such a procession as this 
will be. Where are the relations and friends ? ” 

“We did not have much time,” answered Monsieur 
Villemot, ‘ ‘ and this gentleman was plunged in such 
giief that he could think of nothing ; there is only one 
relation.” 

The master of ceremonies looked at Schmucke with 
an expression of pity, for that expert In suffering was 


376 


Cousin Pons, 


able to distinguish the true from the false ; and he went 
close to him. 

“Come, my dear monsieur,” he said; “think of 
doing honor to your friend’s memory.” 

“We have forgotten,” said Villemot, “ to send notices 
of the funeral ; but I did take pains to send a messenger 
to Monsieur Camusot de Marville, who is the relation 
to whom I alluded. There are no friends, and I don’t 
suppose the company of the theatre where the deceased 
led the orchestra, intend to come. The gentleman is 
left, I think, sole legatee.” 

“Then he must be chief mourner,” said the master 
of ceremonies. “Haven’t you a black coat?” he 
added, examining Schmucke’s clothes. 

“ I am all pla-ag eenzite,” said the poor German 
in heart-rending tones; “zo pla-ag, zo pla-ag, I veel 
I am apoud to tie ! Gott vill haf merzy ubon me, and 
u-naight me in der gra-afe mit meinem freund, — zo 
vill J dank heem ! ” 

He clasped his hands. 

“ I have often told our administration, which has 
already introduced such improvements,” said the master 
of ceremonies, addressing Villemot, “that it ought to 
keep a mourning wardrobe and let out black garments 
to the heirs ; it is a thing that is getting more and 
more necessary every day. However, if monsieur is 
the heir, he really must put on a mourning cloak, 
and the one I have here will wrap him so completely 
that no one will observe the impropriety of his dress. 
Will 3"ou have the goodness to rise ? ” he said to 
Schmucke. 

Schmucke rose, but he tottered on his legs. 


Cousin Pons, 377 

“ Hold him up,” said the master of ceremonies to the 
head-clerk, “ as you are his proxy.” 

Villemot supported Schmucke by grasping him under 
the arms, and the master of ceremonies caught up the 
ample and horrible black mantle which they throw over 
heirs when they follow the hearse on foot from the 
house of death to the church, and fastened it around 
Schmucke’s neck by tying the black silk cords under his 
chin. Schmucke was thus duly apparelled as the heir. 

“Now, here^s another great difficulty,” said the 
master of ceremonies. “We must have four persons 
to hold the four corners of the pall. If there are no 
friends, how are we to get paU-bearers ? It is now 
half-past ten,” he added, looking at his watch; “they 
are waiting for us at the church.” 

“ Here comes Fraisier ! ” cried Villemot, very impru- 
dently. 

No one, however, took notice of this admission of 
complicity. 

“ Who is the gentleman? ” asked the master of cere- 
monies. 

“ Oh ! he comes from the family.” 

“ What family? ” 

“ The disinherited family. He is the proxy of Mon- 
sieur le president Camusot.” 

“Very good,” said the master of ceremonies, in a 
tone of satisfaction ; “we can at least have two of the 
tassels held, — one by you, the other by him.” 

Satisfied by the fact of a couple of tassels being held, 
the master of ceremonies fetched two splendid pairs of 
white doeskin gloves, and presented them first to Frai- 
sier, and then to Villemot, with a polite air. 


378 


Cousin Ponso 


“ Will these gentlemen be kind enough each to take 
a corner of the pall ? ” he said. 

Fraisier, all in black, dressed with care, white cravat, 
official demeanor, was enough to cause a shudder ; he 
seemed to carry a hundred brieffi. 

“ Certainly, monsieur,” he replied. 

“ If only two more persons would come,” said the mas- 
ter of ceremonies, “ the four tassels could all be held.” 

At this moment the indefatigable agent for the house 
of Sonet & Co. made his appearance, followed by the 
only man who had thought of Pons and wished to pay 
him the last duties. This was a jack-of-all-work at the 
theatre named Topinard, whose business it was, among 
other things, to lay out the scores on the desks in the 
orchestra, and to whom Pons gave a monthly gratuity 
of five francs, knowing him to be the father of a family. 

“ Ah ! Dobinard,” cried Schmucke, recognizing him ; 
“ you lofed Bons ! ” 

“Yes, monsieur, and I have called every day to 
inquire for him — ” 

“Effry tay? Boor Dobinard!” said Schmucke, 
grasping him by the hand. 

“Perhaps they took me for a relation, for they 
treated me very ill. It was no use saying I came 
from the theatre and wanted to know how Monsieur 
Pons was ; they said they were up to such dodges. I 
begged them to let me see the poor sick gentleman, but 
they would n’t let me come up.” 

“Dat in-vamooz Zipod!” said Schmucke, pressing 
the horny hand of the man-of-all-work to his heart. 

“ He was a king of men, that good Monsieur Pons. 
He gave me a hundred sous every month ; he knew I 


Couiin Pons, 


879 


was poor, and had three children and a wife. My wife 
has gone to the church.” 

“I vill ti-fite my lasd gruzd mit you,” cried Schmucke, 
in his joy at having some one near him who loved Pons. 

“Will monsieur take one of the tassels?” said the 
master of ceremonies ; “ that makes up the four pall- 
bearers.” 

The runner for the house of Sonet had been easily 
persuaded to take a tassel, more especiall}’ when he saw 
the fine pair of gloves which, according to custom, was 
to be his perquisite. 

“It is a quarter to eleven ! we must start immedi- 
ately ; they are waiting at the church,” said the master 
of ceremonies. 

The six persons descended the stairs. 

“ Close the door of the appartement, and stay in- 
side,” said Fraisier to the two women, who were stand- 
ing on the landing. “Mind what I say, if you wish 
to keep the place, Madame Cantinet ! It is forty sous 
a-day for you.” 

By an accident, which is not at all uncommon in 
Paris, there were two coffins under the porte-cochere, 
and, consequently, two funeral processions, — that of 
Cibot, the defunct concierge, and that of Pons. No 
one appeared to pay a tribute of aflfection to the hand- 
some catafalque of the friend of art, but all the door- 
keepers of the neighborhood flocked to sprinkle the 
mortal remains of their comrade with holy water. This 
contrast between the crowd assembled to do honor to 
Cibot and the solitude around the coffin of Pons, was 
noticeable not only in the house and the porte-cochere, 
but also in the street, where no one followed Pons 


380 


Cousin Pons, 


except Schmucke, who was supported by an undertaker’s 
assistant, for he came near fainting at eyery step. From 
the rue de Normandie to the rue d’Orleans, where the 
church of Saint-Fran 9 ois stands, the processions passed 
between two hedges of curious spectators ; for, as we 
have alread}' said, everything is an event in that quiet 
quarter of Paris. People remarked upon the splendor 
of the white hearse (from which hung an escutcheon 
with a large P embroidered upon it), and the singular 
fact that only one man followed it, while the simple 
coffin of the cheapest class of funeral was accompanied 
by an immense crowd. Schmucke was fortunately so 
bewildered by the heads at the windows, and the hedges 
of gaping people through which he passed, that he heard 
nothing, and only saw the concourse through a veil of 
tears. 

“ Ah ! it’s a Nut-cracker,” said one, “ the musician ; 
don’t you know ? ” 

“ Who are those pall-bearers?” 

“ Bah ! only actors ! ” 

“Look! Here comes the procession of poor Pere 
Cibot 1 Eh ! there ’s a hard- worker gone ; what a 
drudge he was, to be sure ! ” 

“ He was always at home, that man ! ” 

“ He never took a holiday ! ” 

“ How he did love his wife I ” 

“ Poor woman ! ” 

R^monencq was following his victim’s coffin, and re- 
ceiving condolences on the loss of his neighbor. 

The two processions arrived at the church, where 
Cantinet had arranged with the verger that none of the 
beggars should speak to Schmucke. Villemot had 


Cousin Pons, 


381 


promised the heir that he should be left in peace, and 
he kept his word by watching over him and paying all 
the minor charges. The humble funeral of Cibot, fol- 
lowed by sixty to eighty persons, was escorted by the 
whole ooncourse to the cemetery. When the funeral of 
Pons left the church, four mourning-coaches were in 
waiting, — one for the clergy, the three others for the re- 
lations ; only one, however, was required, for the runner 
had departed during the service to apprise Monsieur 
Sonet of the approaching procession, in order that he 
might be on hand to present the design and the estimate 
for the monument as soon as the legatee left the grave. 
Fraisier, Villemot, Schmucke, and Topinard occupied 
the first coach, and the two other coaches, instead of 
returning to their establishment, went empty to Pere- 
Lachaise. This needless trip of empty carriages often 
occurs. When deceased persons have no celebrity, and 
therefore attract few mourners, there are always too 
many carriages. Dead men need to have been beloved 
when living to be followed to the grave in Paris, where 
everybody wants to find a twenty-fifth hour among the 
twenty-four. But the drivers of the funeral coaches 
would lose their drink-money if they failed to make their 
appearance ; and so the carriages go, full or empty, to 
the church and to the cemetery, and return to the house 
of death, where the coachmen ask for their gratuities. 
We little imagine how many persons thrive on a death. 
The lower clergy, the poor of the church, the under- 
takers’ men, the drivers of the coaches, the grave-diggers, 
all such spongy natures, swell out after a funeral. 

From the church, where the heir was assailed, as 
he left it, by a flock of paupers, who were immediately 


382 


Cousin Pons, 


repressed by the verger, to the grave in Pere-Lachaise, 
poor Schmucke went as criminals go from the Palais- 
de- Justice to the place de Greve. He was conducting, 
as it were, his own funeral, holding by the hand the 
jack-of-all-work, Topinard, the sole being who had 
felt in his heart a real regret for the death of Pons. 
Topinard, extremely touched by the honor of being 
made a pall-bearer, and pleased at driving in a carriage 
and possessing a pair of white gloves, began to feel that 
Pons’s funeral was one of the greatest events of his life. 
Sunken in grief, sustained only b3' contact with a hand 
that represented a heart, Schmucke let himself be 
rolled along like those miserable calves which we see 
carried in carts to the slaughter-house. On the forward 
seat of the carriage sat Fraisier and Villemot. Every- 
body who has had the misfortune to accompany friends 
and relations to their last resting-place is aware that 
all hy’pocrisy^ is laid aside in the funeral coaches on the 
road, often very long, between the church and the east- 
ern cemetery, — that particular Parisian cemetery’ where 
all vanities, all luxuries, and all sumptuous monuments 
seem to have mustered. The non-afflicted people begin 
the conversation, and the most afflicted end by’ listening 
to, and then sharing it. 

“Monsieur de Marville had started for the Palais,” 
said Fraisier to Villemot, “ and I did not think it worth 
while to drag him from the court-room ; he would have 
got here too late, in any case. As he is the natural and 
legal heir, though disinherited in favor of Monsieur 
Schmucke, I thought it sufflcient if I were present my- 
self, as his proxy.” 

Topinard began to listen. 


Cousin Pons. 383 

“ Who is that queer fellow who made the fourth 
pall-bearer ? ” said Fraisier to Villemot. 

“ He ’s the agent for a firm that puts up monuments 
and tombstones, and he wants to get an order for a 
tomb, on which he proposes to carve three marble 
figures. Music, Painting, and Sculpture, weeping over 
the deceased.” 

“ That’s quite an idea,” returned Fraisier ; “ the old 
man deserves something of the kind. But such a monu- 
ment would cost at least from seven to eight thousand 
francs.” 

“ Oh ! at least.” 

“ If Monsieur Schmucke gives the order, they can’t 
recover payment out of the propert}^, for, if so, it might 
be eaten up in such expenses.” 

“ They ’ll bring a suit, and win it.” 

“ Well, that will be Schmucke’s affair. It would be 
a good trick to play those fellows,” said Fraisier in a 
low voice ; “for when the will is broken, and I ’ll an- 
swer for that, — or if there should be no will at all, — 
how are they to get their money ? ” 

Villemot laughed slyly. The man of law and the 
head-clerk spoke in whispers or in low tones ; but de- 
spite the noise of the wheels and other hindrances, 
Topinard, accustomed to guess at meanings in the 
green-room, discovered that the two lawyers were plot- 
ting to drive the poor German to the wall, and he 
finally heard a significant mention of Clichy, the debt- 
ors’ prison. From that moment the worthy and faith- 
ful servant of the drama resolved to keep watch over 
the friend of Pons. 

At the cemetery, where, thanks to the agent of the 


384 


Cousin Pons. 


Maison Sonet, Villemot had bought ten feet of ground 
from the administration, announcing that a fine monu- 
ment would be erected on it, Schmucke was led by 
the master of ceremonies through a crowd of idlers to 
the grave, into which the body was about to be lowered. 
But when he saw the square hole, over which four men 
were holding the coffin of Pons, suspended by ropes, 
while the priest was saying the last praj^er, Schmucke’s 
heart died within him, and he fainted away. 


Couiin Pons. 


385 


XXIX. 

IN WHICH WE SEE THAT WHAT IS CALLED COMING INTO 
POSSESSION OF PROPERTY MAY MEAN DISPOSSESSION. 

Topinard, assisted by the agent of the house of 
Sonet and by Monsieur Sonet himself, carried poor 
Schmucke to the establishment of the marble-cutter, 
where the kindest and most generous attentions were 
showered on him by Madame Sonet and Madame 
Vitelot, wife of Monsieur Sonet's partner. 

In about an hour — that is, at half-past two — the poor 
innocent German recovered his senses. He fancied 
that he had been dreaming for two days, and thought 
he should wake up and find Pons living. So many 
damp cloths were on his head, and the people about 
him were putting so much salts and vinegar to his nose, 
that he opened his eyes. Madame Sonet forced him to 
drink some good strong broth, for the pot-au-feu was 
simmering at the monumental establishment. 

“We don’t often meet with customers who show such 
deep feeling,” remarked Madame Sonet; “ though we 
do see them, now and then, in a king’s reign.” 

At last Schmucke spoke of returning to the rue de 
Normandie. 

“ Monsieur,” said Sonet, “ here is the design which 
my partner Vitelot made expressly for you ; he sat up 
all night to do it. He was trul}^ inspired ; it will be a 
fine thing.” 


26 


B86 


Cousin Pons. 


“ One of the finest things in Pere-Lachaise,” said 
little Madame Sonet. “You are right to honor the 
memory of a friend who has left you his whole fortune.” 

This tombstone, “ designed expressly ” for Pons, had 
originally been prepared for de Marsay, the famous 
minister ; but his widow preferred to intrust his monu- 
ment to Stidmann, and the design of the marble-cutters 
had found no sale, for people in general have a horror 
of ready-made monuments. The three figures origi- 
nally represented the days in July when that great 
minister distinguished himself. Since then Sonet and 
Vitelot had turned the three “ glorieuses,” ^ with cer- 
tain modifications, into Army, Finance, and Family, as 
a suitable monument for Charles Keller ; but his heirs 
also preferred to have one executed by Stidmann. 
For the last eleven years the design had been adapted 
to every possible family circumstance, and on this occa- 
sion Vitelot had transformed the three figures into 
Music, Painting, and Sculpture. 

“ The cost is really nothing, when we consider the 
details and the masonry, which will take six months,” 
said Vitelot. “ Monsieur, here is the estimate, and the 
contract, — seven thousand francs ; of course not includ- 
ing the quarrying — ” 

“ If monsieur wishes marble,” said Sonet, who was 
more particularly a marble-cutter, “ it will cost twelve 
thousand, and monsieur will immortalize himself as 
well as his friend.” 

“ I have just heard that the will is to be contested,” 
whispered Topinard to Vitelot, ‘ ‘ and that the heirs are 

1 Les Glorieuses; popular name for the three days’ Revolution of 1830, 
which were called “ glorieuses ” in the official language of the time. — Tr. 


Cousin Pons, 


387 


certain to recover the property ; you had better go and 
see Monsieur Camusot de Marville, for this poor inno- 
cent won’t have a penny.” 

“You are always bringing us customers like that!” 
said Madame Vitelot angrily to the runner, beginning a 
dispute. 

Topinard took Schmucke back to the rue de Norman- 
die on foot, for the carriages had already returned there. 

“ Toan’d leaf me ! ” said Schmucke to Topinard. 

Topinard wished to go away after consigning 
Schmucke to the hands of Madame Sauvage. 

“It is four o’clock, my dear Monsieur Schmucke, 
and I must go and get my dinner ; my wife, who is a 
box-opener, won’t know what has become of me. You 
know the theatre opens at a quarter to six.” 

“ Yez, I know ; pud joost dink I I am aloan in de 
vorld, I haf no frent. You, who lofed Bons and 
mourned for heems, inzdrugd me, dell me vat I moost 
do ; my mindt ees targ as naight, and Bons delled me I 
vas zurrountet mit zgountrels.” 

“ I saw that myself,” said Topinard, “ and I’ve pre- 
vented them from putting you to bed in Clichy.” 

“ Gligy ?” cried Schmucke ; “ I toan’d unterztant.” 

“ Poor man ! well, don’t be troubled ; I ’ll come and 
see you again ; good-bye.” 

“ Atieu ; redurn zoon,” said Schmucke, dropping 
down, almost dead with weariness. 

“ Adieu, monsieur ! ” said Madame Sauvage to Topi- 
nard in a tone that struck that dramatic observer as 
peculiar. 

“ Well, what’s the matter with you?” he said, jok* 
Ing ; “ you stand there like the traitor in a melodrama J ” 


888 


Cousin Pons, 


“ Traitor j^ourself ! What are you poking your nose 
into ? Don’t you go and meddle with monsieur’s affairs 
and play him false.” 

“ Play him false, scullion ! ” replied Topinard scorn- 
fully. “ I am only a poor worker at a theatre; but 
I belong to artists, and I’d have you know I ask 
nothing from any one. Did I ask you for anj^thing ? 
What have I to do with you, hey, old woman ? ” 

“You belong to the theatre, do you? Pray what’s 
3^our name ? ” said the virago. 

“ Topinard, at 3"our service.” 

“That’s all I want to know. My compliments to 
m^deme your wife, if monsieur is married — ” 

“ Why, what’s the matter, my dear?” said Madame 
Cantinet, who came in just at this moment. 

“This is the matter, — that you are going to stay 
here and look after Monsieur Schmucke, and I ’m going 
to kick that fellow downstairs — ” 

“ He ’s downstairs already’ ; I hear him talking with 
that poor Madame Cibot, who is shedding all the tears 
in her body,” said Madame Cantinet. 

The Sauvage rushed down the stairway with such 
rapidity that the stairs shook under her feet. 

“Monsieur!” she said to Fraisier, drawing him a 
few steps away from Madame Cibot. 

She pointed to Topinard at the moment when that 
worthy man was departing, proud of having paid his 
debt to his benefactor by hindering, with a craft worthy 
of the side-scenes (where every one is more or less 
roguish), the friend of Pons from falling into a trap. 
Moreover, he resolved to protect the pianist of his or- 
chestra against all the snares that might be set for him. 


Cousin Pons. 


389 


“Do you see that little wretch?** said the Sauvage 
to Fraisier. ‘ ‘ He has been poking his nose into Mon- 
sieur Schmucke’s affairs.** 

“ Who is he? ’* asked Fraisier. 

“Oh! a nobody.’* 

“ There is no such thing as a nobody in business.** 

“ Well,** she said, “he is a man belonging to Mon- 
sieur Schmucke’s theatre, named Topinard.” 

“ Very good, Madame Sauvage. Go on as you are 
doing now, and you shall have your tobacco license.” 
And Fraisier went back to his conversation with 
Madame Cibot. 

“As I was saying, my dear client, you have not 
played fair with us, and we are not bound to keep terms 
with an associate who deceives us.” 

“ How have I deceived you? ” said the Cibot, putting 
her hands on her hips. “ Do you think you can 
frighten me with your sour looks and your snaky ways ? 
You are only hunting for bad reasons to break your 
promises. And you call yourself an honest man I Do 
you know what you are ? You *re the scum of the earth ! 
Ha ! the cap fits, does it? Put that in your pipe, and 
smoke it ! ” 

“Don’t get angry, my dear,” said Fraisier. “ Lis- 
ten to me. You have made your private haul. This 
morning, while waiting upstairs for the funeral to 
start, I found this catalogue, in duplicate, written 
throughout in Monsieur Pons’s own hand, and my eyes 
chanced to fall upon this item.” 

He opened the manuscript catalogue, and read as 
follows : — 


390 


Cousin Pons, 


“ No. 7. Magnificent portrait, painted on marble by 
Sebastian del Piombo in 1546 ; sold by a family who took 
it from the cathedral of Temi. This portrait (which 
formerly had a companion portrait of a bishop, which was 
bought by an Englishman) represents a Knight of Malta 
in prayer, and was placed over the tomb of the Rossi family. 
If it were not for the date, this picture might be attributed 
to Raphael. It seems to me superior to the portrait of 
Baccio Bandinelli in the Musee, which is a little injured; 
whereas this Knight of Malta has a freshness of color due 
to the preservation of painting on lavagna (slate).’* 

“ When I looked,” resumed Fraisier, “ at the place of 
No. 7 I saw there the portrait of a lady, signed Chardin, 
and no No. 7 at all ! While the master of ceremonies 
was completing the number of his pall-bearers, I 
verified all the pictures, and I found eight substitutions 
of common pictures, without numbers, for works named 
as celebrities by the late Monsieur Pons, which are 
no longer in the collection. There is also missing a 
little picture on wood by Metzu, which is designated 
as a masterpiece.” 

“Was I the keeper of the pictures?” demanded the 
Cibot. 

“ No, but you were the confidential housekeeper, and 
attended to all Monsieur Pons’s affairs ; and if there has 
been a robbery — ” 

“Robbery! You will please understand, monsieur, 
once for all, that the pictures were sold by Monsieur 
Schmucke, under the orders of Monsieur Pons, to meet 
their expenses.” 

“ Sold to whom?” 

“ Messieurs i]lie Magus and Remonencq.” 

“ For how much ? ” 


Cousin Pons. 


391 


“ I don’t recollect.” 

“ Listen to me, my dear Madame Cibot. You have 
lined your pockets pretty well, and they are full,” 
resumed Fraisier. “ I ’ve got my eye on you ; you are 
in m^ power. Serve me well, and I will be silent ! In 
any case, you will please understand that you are to 
receive nothing from Monsieur de Marville, inasmuch 
as you have thought proper to rob him.” 

“ I knew very well, my dear Monsieur Fraisier, that 
I should be left out in the cold,” answered the Cibot, 
softened by the promise of silence. 

“ Look here ! ” said Remonencq, who now showed 
himself, ‘ ‘ are you picking a quarrel with madame ? That 
is n’t fair ! The sale of the pictures was made on a 
mutual agreement among Monsieur Pons, Monsieur 
Magus, and myself ; it was three days before the 
deceased would come to an agreement, for he actually 
dreamed of those pictures. We have the receipts all in 
order; and if we gave, as we did, a few forty-franc 
pieces to madame, she only got what it is the custom to 
give in all the middle-class houses where we conclude a 
bargain. My good monsieur, if you are trying to cheat 
a defenceless woman, you’ve come to the wrong shop. 
Do you hear me, trickster and sharper that you are? 
Monsieur Magus is master of the whole affair. And if 
you don’t draw it gently with madame here, and if you 
don’t pay her what you promised, I will go to the sale 
of the collection ; and you ’ll see what you ’ll lose if you 
have Monsieur Magus and me against j^ou. We could 
stir up the dealers ; and instead of getting eight hun- 
dred thousand francs, you would not get two hundred 
thousand.” 


§92 


Cousin Pons, 


'“Very good, very good; we’ll see about that!’* 
said Fraisier. “We won’t sell at all, or we will sell in 
London.” 

“We know London ! ” cried Remonencq. ‘ ‘ Monsieur 
Magus is as powerful in London as he is in Paris.” 

“Adieu, madame ; I’ll pluck your feathers,” said 
Fraisier to Madame Cibot, “unless you obey me — 
always,” he added. 

“You little sharper ! ” she screamed. 

“Take care! ’’said Fraisier; “I’m to he juge-de- 
paix.” 

They parted with menaces which were well under- 
stood on both sides. 

“ Thank you, Remonencq,” said the Cibot ; “ it ’s a 
good thing for a poor widow to find a protector.” 

That evening, about ten o’clock, Gaudissard sent for 
Topinard to come to his private room at the theatre. 
Gaudissard, standing before the fireplace, took the 
Napoleonic attitude he was fond of assuming now 
that he directed a whole world of actors, dancers, 
musicians, and machinists, and negotiated treaties with 
authors. He habitually slipped his right hand into his 
waistcoat and grasped his left suspender, holding his 
head at a three-quarter profile and casting his glance 
into the void. 

“ Ha ! Topinard, have you property to live upon? ” 

“ No, monsieur.” 

“ Are you looking out for some place that’s better 
than the one you are in ? ” 

“ No, monsieur,” answered the hireling, turning 
pale. 


Cousin Pons. 


393 


“What the devil do you want, then? Your wife is 
box-opener on the first tier, — I let her keep that posi- 
tion out of respect for my predecessor ; I gave you the 
job of cleaning the lamps of the side-scenes during 
the day ; you have charge of the orchestra and the 
scores at night. And that’s not all! you get twenty 
sous extra pay for all the goblins, and for marshalling 
the devils when there ’s a hell. It is a place every man 
in your position ought to covet, — and it is coveted, 
my good friend, in this theatre, where you have got 
enemies — ” 

“ Enemies ! ” cried Topinard. 

“ You have three children, and the eldest plays the 
juvenile parts at fifty centimes — ” 

“ Monsieur ! ” 

“ Let me speak I ” said Gaudissard in a thundering 
voice. “ In such a position as that, you wish to quit 
the theatre — ” 

“ Monsieur I ’* 

“ You choose to meddle with other people’s business, 
and stick your finger into wills and legacies I But, you 
fool, you ’ll be crushed like an egg ! I have his Excel- 
lency Monseigneur le Comte Popinot for my protector, 
a man of intelligence and high character, whom the 
King in his wisdom has called to a place in the Council. 
This statesman, this high political power, — I speak of 
Comte Popinot, — has married his son to the daughter 
of Monsieur Camusot de Marville, one of our most im- 
portant and most respected judges, the chief luminary 
of the law at the Palais. You know the Palais de 
Justice? Well, this judge is the heir of his Cousin 
Pons, the late leader of our orchestra, to whose funeral 


394 


Cousin Pons, 


3"ou went this morning. I don’t blame you for paying 
the last duties to that poor man. But you won’t keep 
your place here if you go and meddle in the affairs of 
the worthy Monsieur Schmucke, to whom I wish well, 
but who will find himself in hot water with the family 
of Pons. Now, as this German is nothing at all to me, 
and as Comte Popinot and Monsieur de MarvfiUe are a 
great deal to me, I advise you to let the excellent Mon- 
sieur Schmucke disentangle his own affairs. There ’s a 
special God for Germans, and you ’d make a ver}" poor 
sub-God. Take my advice, and stay what you are ; 
you can’t do better.” 

“Enough, monsieur le directeur!” said Topinard, 
nearly heart-broken. 

Schmucke, who expected all the next day to see 
Topinard, the only being who had shed a tear for Pons, 
thus lost the protector whom chance had seemed to 
bestow upon him. The poor German woke on the mor- 
row to a sense of his great loss as he gazed on the 
empty appartement. During the preceding days, the 
events and the bustle attending death had produced 
around him the excitement and stir which insensibly 
distract the eye. But the silence that follows the de- 
parture of a friend, a father, a son, a beloved wife to 
the tomb, the cold and dreary silence of the morrow, is 
terrible, it is glacial. Led by an irresistible influence 
into the chamber of his friend, the poor man could not 
endure its aspect; he di'ew back and returned to the 
dining-room, where Madame Sauvage was serving break- 
fast. He sat down, but could not eat. Suddenly the 
bell rang rather loudly, and three men in black ap- 
peared, for whom Madame Cantinet and Madame 


Cousin Pons. 


395 


Sauvage made way. The first was Monsieur Vitei, 
juge-de-paix ; the second, his clerk ; while Fraisier 
brought up the rear, more harsh and bitter than ever, 
having just encountered the disappointment of hearing 
that there was another will, legally drawn, which an- 
nulled the first document, the powerful weapon he had 
so audaciously stolen. 

“We have come, monsieur,’’ said the juge-de-paix 
to Schmucke, gently, “ to affix the seals.” 

Schmucke, to whom these words were Greek, gazed 
at the three men with a frightened air. 

“We have come at the request of Monsieur Fraisier, 
barrister, the proxy of Monsieur Camusotde Marville, the 
heir of his cousin, the late Sieur Pons,” added the clerk. 

“The collection is there, in that large salon, and in 
the bedroom of the deceased,” said Fraisier. 

“ Very good ; then we will pass on. Excuse us, 
monsieur ; go on with your breakfast,” said the justice. 

The invasion of the three men in black had stiffened 
Schmucke with terror. 

“ This gentleman,” said Fraisier, fixing on Schmucke 
one of those venomous glances with which he mag- 
netized his victim just as a spider magnetizes a fly, 
“ this gentleman, who has contrived to get a will made 
in his favor before a notary, must expect to meet with 
opposition from the rightful heirs. No family will per- 
mit a stranger to rob them without making resistance ; 
and we shall see, monsieur, which will carry the day, — 
fraud and corruption, or family ties. We have the 
right, as the legitimate heirs, to demand that the seals 
be aflSxed. I shall watch that this protective act be 
performed with the utmost rigor; and it will be.’' 


B 96 


Cousin Pons. 


“ Mein Gott! mein Gott ! vat grime haf I gommid- 
ded accainst heffen ? ” said the innocent Schmucke. 

“There’s a deal of talk about 3^ou in the house,” 
said the Sauvage. “While you. were asleep a little 
fellow dressed all in black, a mere puppy, the head- 
clerk of Monsieur Hannequin, was here. He insisted 
on seeing 5'ou ; but as you were sleeping, and worn 
out after the ceremonies of 3’esterday, I told him 
you had given a power of attorney to Monsieur Ville- 
mot, the head-clerk of Monsieur Tabareau, and that if 
he had come on business he had better go and see him. 

‘ Ah ! very good,’ he said ; ‘ I can come to an under- 
standing with him : we are going to deposit the will, after 
showing it to the president.’ So I asked him to send 
Monsieur Villemot here as soon as he could. Don’t be 
anxious, monsieur,” she added, “3"Ou have plenty of 
people to defend your rights. They can’t shear the 
wool from j^our back. You ’ve got somebody behind 
you with claws and teeth. Monsieur Villemot will send 
’em to the right-about. As for me, I have been in such 
a passion with that horrid Ma’ame Cibot, who presumes 
to judge her masters ! She declares you ’ve filched the 
property from the heirs, and that j’ou locked up Mon- 
sieur Pons and made a tool of him ; she saj^s he was 
out of his mind. But I avenged j^ou on her finely, the 
wretch ! ‘ You ’re a thief and a low deceiver ! ’ I said 

to her, ‘ and you ’ll be sent to the assizes for the things 
3’ou ’ve stolen from your gentleman,’ — that stopped 
her mouth, I can tell you.” 

“Does monsieur wish to be present when the seals 
are aflSxed in the bedroom of the deceased?” said the 
clerk, coming back to fetch Schmucke. 


Cousin Pons. 397 

“No, no!” said Schmucke; “led me aloan, led 
me tie in beace ! ” 

“ People have the right to die as they like,” said the 
clerk, laughing, “and our chief business is with the 
property they leave behind them ; but we seldom see 
the heir of all following the testator to the grave, and 
dying with him ! ” 

“ I am tying mit heems,” said Schmucke, who felt, 
after so many blows, an intolerable anguish in his 
heart. 

“Ah! here comes Monsieur Villemot,” cried the 
Sauvage. 

“Monsir Fillemod,” said the poor German, “bleaze 
to rebrezend me.” 

“Instantly,” said the head-clerk; “I came to tell 
you that the will is all in order, and will certainly be 
admitted by the court, which will put you at once into 
possession. You will have a fine property.” 

‘ ‘ Broberdy ! I — ” cried Schmucke, in despair at 
being thought to care for it. 

“Meantime,” said the Sauvage, “what’s that 
de-paix doing in there, with his candles and his little 
bits of wire ribbon ? ” 

“Ah! he is aflSxing the seals. Come, Monsieur 
Schmucke, you have the right to be present.” 

“ No ; bleaze go yourzelv.” 

“ But why does he put on the seals, if monsieur is in 
his own home and the property belongs to him ? ” de- 
manded the Sauvage, making the law for herself, like 
all women, who interpret the Code to suit their fancy. 

“Monsieur is not in his own home, but in that of 
Monsieur Pons,” said Villemot. “ It will all belong to 


398 


Cousin Pons. 


him, no doubt ; but a legatee can take the property only 
by what we call ‘ a mandate of possession,* and that is 
issued by the court. If the dispossessed legal heirs 
contest the mandate, then a suit is brought ; and as it 
is doubtful what decision may be rendered, seals are 
affixed to the property, and the notaries of the heirs 
and of the legatee proceed to make the inventory during 
the delay required by law. That ’s how it is.” 

Hearing this legal jargon for the first time in his 
life, Schmucke’s head complete^ gave way ; it felt too 
heavy to hold up any longer, and he let it fall upon the 
back of the arm-chair in which he was sitting. Villemot 
went to talk with the justice and his clerk, and assist, 
with the coolness of a practised hand, in affixing the 
seals, — which, if the heirs are not present, is seldom 
accomplished without a few jests and observations on 
the articles that are thus fastened up until the time 
comes for their distribution. At last the four lawyers 
closed the salon and returned to the dining-room, where 
the clerk continued his work. Schmucke mechanically 
watched the operation, which consists in sealing with 
the official seal of the juge-de~paix a wire ribbon to 
each leaf of the door, if it is a folding-door, or from 
the door-panels to the wall-partitions when the single 
doors of the rooms and closets are to be closed. 

“ Let us go into this room,” said Fraisier, pointing to 
Schmucke’s bedroom. 

“ But that ’s monsieur’s own room,” said the Sauvage, 
springing forward, and putting herself between the 
lawyers and the door. 

“ Here is the lease of the appartement,” said the 
odious Fraisier ; “we found it among the papers. It 


Cousin Pons, 


399 


is not made out in the name of Pons and Schmucke, it 
is in the name of Monsieur Pons only. This apparte- 
ment is part of the property; and besides — ” He 
added, opening the door of Schmucke’s room, “See, 
monsieur le juge, it is full of pictures.” 

“So it is,” said the juge-de~paix^ giving in to 
Fraisier at once. 


400 


Cousin Pom» 


XXX. 


THE FRUITS OF FRAISIER, 

“ Stop a moment, gentlemen,” cried Villemot. “ Do 
you think that you are going to turn the legatee out 
of doors when his rights are nothing more than 
contested ? ” 

“Yes, yes!” exclaimed Fraisier; “we forbid the 
delivery of the legacy.” 

“ Under what pretext? ” 

“ You ’ll soon know all about it, my little man ! ” said 
Fraisier, jeeringly. “ At this stage of the proceedings 
we won’t prevent the legatee from withdrawing all arti- 
cles personally belonging to him in this chamber, but 
the room will then be sealed up. Monsieur can go and 
lodge where he likes.” 

“No,” said Villemot; “monsieur will stay in his 
own room I ” 

“ How will you manage it?” 

“ I will make application before the court and bring 
proof that he is part-tenant of this appartement, and 
that you cannot turn him out. Take away the pic- 
tures and decide on what belonged to the deceased and 
what belongs to my client, if you like ; but my client 
will stay here, my little man ! ” cried Villemot. 

“I vill leaf!” said Schmucke, whose energy came 
back to him as he listened to the horrible dispute. 

“You had better,” said Fraisier; “ you will escape 


Cousin Pons, 


401 


costs, for you could n’t win a suit. The lease to Mon- 
sieur Pons is formall}" made out.” 

“ The lease ! the lease ! ” cried Villemot ; “ it is a 
matter of equity and good faith.” 

“ You can’t prove it, as in criminal cases, by testi- 
mony. Are you going to rush into questions of tenure, 
and get interlocutory judgments, and bring a suit?” 
said Fraisier. 

“ No, no ! ” cried Schmucke, terrified ; “I gif ub ; I 
vill moof oud ; I vill leaf de house.” 

Schmucke’s life was that of a philosopher, cynical 
without knowing it, reduced as it was to its simplest 
expression. He possessed only two pairs of shoes, one 
pair of boots, two complete suits of clothes, twelve 
shirts, twelve silk handkerchiefs, twelve pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, four waistcoats, and a superb pipe, which 
Pons had given him, with an embroidered tobacco- 
pouch. Roused to action by a fever of indignation, he 
went into his room, gathered up his belongings, and laid 
them on a chair. 

“ All dat ees mine,” he said, with a simplicity 
worthy of Cincinnatus ; “ de biano ees alzo mine.” 

“ Madame,” said Fraisier to the Sauvage, “ get some 
man to help you, and put these things and the piano 
out on the landing.” 

“You are too harsh,” said Villemot to Fraisier. 
“ The juge-de-paix is the one to give such orders ; he 
is master of this afiair.” 

“There is property there,” said the clerk, pointing 
to the bedroom. 

“ And, moreover,” observed the justice, “ monsieur 
leaves of his own free-will.” 

26 


402 


Cousin Pons, 


“ Did I ever see such a client ! exclaimed Villemot, 
turning on Schmucke indignantlj’^ ; “ you are as limp as 
a rag ! ” 

“Vat gan it madder vare I tie ? ” said Schmucke, turn- 
ing to go. “ Dese men, dey loog ad me laike di-gars. 
I vill zent for my boor dings,” he added. 

“ Where is monsieur going? ” 

“ Var-effer it bleazes Gott,” said the heir of all, with 
a gesture of profound indifference. 

“ Let me know where,” said Villemot. 

“ Follow him,” whispered Fraisier to the head-clerk. 

Madame Cantinet was appointed guardian of the 
seals and of the moneys found on the premises, receiv- 
ing an allowance of fifty francs. 

“ It is all going right,” said Fraisier to Vitel, ihejuge- 
de-paix, when Schmucke had departed. “ If you intend 
to resign your position in my favor, go and see Madame 
de Marville, and come to an understanding with her.” 

“ That man is made of butter ! ” said Vitel, pointing 
to Schmucke, who was standing in the court-yard, looking 
up for the last time at the windows of the appartement. 

“Yes, he can’t resist!” said Fraisier. “You may 
safely marry your little daughter to Poulain ; the doctor 
is to be surgeon-in-chief of the Quinze-Vingts.” 

“We’ll see about it. Adieu, Monsieur Fraisier!” 
said jug e-de-paix in a tone of fellowship. 

“ That ’s a man of resources,” said the justice’s clerk ; 
“ he ’ll go far, that cur 1 ” 

It was now eleven o’clock ; the old German went his 
way, mechanically following the streets he was wont 
to take with Pons, thinking ceaselessly of his friend, 


Cousin Pons. 


403 


and fancying he was at his side. As he reached the 
theatre, Topinard, who had just cleaned all the lamps 
of the side-scenes, was coming away, with his mind full 
of the director’s tyranny. 

“ Ah ! here ees joost vat I vant ! ” cried Schmucke, 
stopping him. “ Dobinard, haf you a blace to lif in? ’* 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“ A houzeholt vare you ead? ” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Gan you dake me to poard? I vill bay you veil ; 
I boz-ess nine hundert vrancs a-year. I haf nod long 
to lif. I shall pe no druppel, I ead zo liddel ; mein 
only lugzury ees to zmoak my bibe. You aloan haf 
creeft for Pons, und zo I lof you I ” 

“ Monsieur, I would take you with much pleasure ; 
but you must know that Monsieur Gaudissard has been 
wigging me — ” 

“ Vig-gin?” 

“ Well, I mean combed my hair — ” 

“ Goamt 3^our hair ? ” 

“ He scolded me for taking an interest in you ; and 
if you come to live with me we must be very discreet. 
Even if you do come, I don’t believe you ’ll stay long ; 
you don’t know what the home of a poor devil like 
me is.” 

“ I breffare de boor home of a goot heart dat lofed 
Bons, pedder dann de Duileries mit men laike di-gars. 
I haf lefd di-gars in Bons’s abbardemend who vill 
tefower all.” 

“ Come with me, monsieur,” said Topinard, “ and you 
shall see just ho\^ it is. But — stay, there is a loft ! 
We will consult Madame Topinard.” 


i04 


Cousin Pons, 


Schmucke followed Topinard like a skeep as he led him 
into one of those horrible localities which may be called 
the cancers of Paris. The place is named the ci^e'-Bordin. 
It is a narrow passage, flanked with houses built as they 
build houses on speculation, and it opens from the rue 
de Bondy near that part of the street which is overshad- 
owed by the immense building of the theatre of the Porte- 
Saint-Martin, one of the warts of Paris. This passage, 
whose road-bed is sunk below the level of the street 
pavement, shelves down in the direction of the rue des 
Mathurin-des-Temples. The cite ends with a transver- 
sal street that bars it at one end, in the form of a T. 
These two lanes, standing thus at right angles, contain 
about thirty houses of six or seven stories each, whose 
various tenements and inner courtj^ards are crowded 
with warerooms, small manufactories, and industries of 
every sort. It is the faubourg Saint-Antoine in minia- 
ture. Here they make furniture, engrave brass, sew 
costumes for the theatre, blow and cut glass, paint 
porcelains, and manufacture all the novelties and 
varieties of the commodity called the article-Paris. 
Dirty and productive as commerce itself, this passage, 
swarming with human beings coming and going, and 
with hand-carts and drays, is repulsive in aspect, and 
the population which hives there is in keeping with the 
products and the premises. They are people of small 
trades and manufactures ; intelligent in manual labor, 
but their intelligence is all absorbed in it. Topinard 
lived in this cite — flourishing by reason of its indus- 
tries — because the rents were low. He occupied the 
second house to the left of the entrance. His apparte- 
ment, on the sixth floor, had a view of a zone of 


Cousin Pons. 405 

gardens which are still to be seen, and belong to the 
three or four fine mansions in the rue de Bondy. 

Topinard’s tenement included only a kitchen and two 
chambers. The first chamber belonged to the children, 
and contained two little white wooden bedsteads and a 
cradle ; the second was the bedroom of the father and 
mother. The family took their meals in the kitchen. 
Above was a half-story, or loft, about six feet in 
height, with a zinc roof, lighted from above. It was 
reached by a stairway of white wood, called in builders' 
jargon “ a miller’s ladder.” This room, intended for 
a servant, enabled the owner of the house to call the 
Topinards’ lodging a complete appartement, and to 
charge four hundred francs a-year for it. At the 
entrance, to mask the kitchen, was a thin partition, 
or screen (lighted by a circular window opening into 
the kitchen), in which were three doors. The rooms 
were all fioored with brick, painted wood-color in a 
vulgar style, and filled with the belongings of a family 
of five, three of whom were children. The walls 
showed deep scratches made by the children as high 
up as their arms could reach. Well-to-do people can 
hardly imagine the paucity of the kitchen utensils, 
which consisted of one Dutch oven, one kettle, one 
gridiron, one saucepan, two or three coflee-pots, and 
a frying-pan. The plates and dishes, of brown and 
white earthenware, were worth about twelve francs. The 
table did the double duty of kitchen-table and dining- 
table ; and the rest of the furniture comprised only two 
chairs and two stools. The space under the oven was 
filled with a provision of wood and coal. In a corner 
stood a tub, in which the family washing was frequently 


406 


Cousin Pons, 


done during the night. The room occupied by the 
children had clothes-lines stretched across it, and it 
was papered with a medley of theatrical posters and 
engravings cut from newspapers or from the pro- 
spectuses of illustrated books. The eldest hope of 
the Topinards, whose school-books lay in a corner of 
the room, was evidently intrusted with the care of the 
household when the father and mother departed, at six 
o’clock in the evening, for their service at the theatre. 
In many poor families, as soon as a child is six or seven 
years old, he plays the part of a mother to his younger 
brothers and sisters. 

This slight sketch will serve to show that the Topi- 
nards were, in popular phrase, poor but honest. Topi- 
nard was about forty years of age, and his wife, a 
former leader of the chorus (the mistress, it was said, 
of the bankrupt director who had preceded Gaudis- 
sard) , was thirty. Lolotte had been a beauty ; but 
the misfortunes of the late administration had re- 
acted upon her so far as to oblige her to contract a 
‘ ‘ theatre marriage ” with Topinard. She never doubted 
that when they were a hundred and fifty francs ahead 
of the world, Topinard would redeem his promises and 
marry her legally, if only to legitimize the children, 
whom he adored. In the mornings, during her leisure 
moments, Madame Topinard sewed for the property- 
room of the theatre. This indefatigable pair earned 
by incessant labor about nine hundred francs a-year 
between them. 

“ Another flight ! ” Topinard had remarked, from the 
third floor up, to Schmucke, who was so absorbed in his 
misery as not to know whether he was going up or down. 


Cousin Pons, 


407 


At the moment when the former, dressed in white linen, 
like all the persons emplo3'ed about a theatre, opened 
the door of the kitchen, the voice of Madame Topinard 
was heard calling out, — 

“ Come, children, be quiet; here’s papa ! ” 

As the children evidently did what they liked with 
papa, the eldest, mounted on a broomstick, continued 
to lead a charge of cavalrj", in remembrance of the 
Cirque-Olj'mpique, the second to toot on a tin fife, 
while the third brought up the rear as the rank and 
file of the army. The mother was sewing on a theatri- 
cal costume. 

“Be quiet!” cried Topinard in a formidable voice, 
“or I ’ll thrash you — Always have to say that, j^ou 
know,” he added in a whisper to Schmucke. “ Here, 
my girl,” he said to Madame Topinard, “ here ’s 
Monsieur Schmucke, the friend of that poor Monsieur 
Pons ; he does not know where to go, and so he 
wants to come to us. It’s in vain that I tell him 
we are not gorgeous, that we live on the sixth floor, 
and have nothing but a loft to give him ; he insists on 
coming — ” 

Schmucke had seated himself on a chair which 
Madame Topinard placed for him, and the children, 
silenced by the arrival of a stranger, were huddled 
together in a group, devoting themselves to that pro- 
foundly critical, mute, and quickly finished examination 
which distinguishes childhood, accustomed, like dogs, 
to scent things rather than judge of them. Schmucke 
took notice of the pretty group, in which was a little 
girl about five years old, the one who blew the fife 
and had magnificent blond hair. 


408 


Cousin Pons, 


She ees laike a liddel Chermann ! said Schmucke, 
making her a sign to come to him. 

“ Monsieur will he very uncomfortable in the loft,” 
said the mother; “ if I were not obliged to have my 
children near me, I would ask him to take our room.” 

She opened the door of the chamber as she spoke, 
and showed it to Schmucke. The whole luxurj^ of the 
appartement was concentrated there. The mahogany 
bedstead was draped with curtains of blue calico, edged 
with white fringe. The same blue calico, in the form 
of curtains, decorated the window. The bureau, the 
secretary', and the chairs, also of mahogany, were all 
well cared for. On the mantelshelf was a clock and 
some candlesticks, — doubtless the gift of the bankrupt, 
whose portrait, a hideous painting by Pierre Grassou, 
hung above the bureau. The children, to whom all 
entrance into these sacred precincts was forbidden, cast 
inquisitive glances across the threshold. 

“Monsieur would be comfortable there,” said 
Madame Topinard. 

“ No, no,” answered Schmucke. “ I haf nod long to 
lif ; I only neet a gorner in vich to tie.” 

Madame Topinard shut the chamber-door, and led 
the way to the loft. As soon as Schmucke saw it he 
cried,— 

“ Dis ees joost raight ! Pefore I lift mit Bons, I vaa 
nefare pedder houzed dan dis.” 

“ Well, then,” said Topinard, “we shall only have 
to buy a cot-bed, two mattresses, a bolster, a pillow, 
two chairs, and a table, including wash-basin and 
things, and a little bed-side carpet. Fifty crowns will 
do it all ; and that is n’t the death of a man ! ” 


Cousin Pons, 


409 


It was all arranged ; but the fifty crowns seemed to 
be lacking, and Schmucke, who was within two steps of 
the theatre, naturally thought, when he saw the poverty 
of his new friends, of asking the director for his salary. 
He went at once to the theatre and found Gaudissard. 
That magnate received him with the rather stiff civility 
he assumed towards artists, and was astonished at 
Schmucke’s request for a month’s salary. Neverthe- 
less, on examining the accounts, the demand was found 
to be a just one. 

“The devil! My dear fellow,” cried Gaudissard, 
‘‘ you Germans know how to keep accounts, even in 
the depths of affliction ! I thought you ’d be grateful 
for the gift of that thousand francs — a whole year’s 
salary — which I sent you, and for which you ought to 
have given me a receipt.” 

“ Ve nefare reziefed id,” said Schmucke. “ Und eef 
I now goam to you, it ees begauze I am trifien indo 
de zdreeds mit-oud a benny. Py whom tid you zend 
de money ? ” 

“ By your housekeeper.” 

“ Matame Zipod ! ” cried the pianist. “ She gilled 
Bons ! she roppt heems, she zolt his broberdy, she 
dried to purn his vill ! She ees a hoozy — a monzder ! ” 

“ But, my dear fellow, how is it you have n’t a penny, 
and are turned into the streets without a home, when 
the whole property was left to you? It isn’t logical, 
as we say.” 

“ Dey durned me oud of toors. I am a zdrancher ; 
I know noding of de laws.” 

“Poor man!” thought Gaudissard, seeing in his 
mind’s eye the probable end of the unequal struggle. 


410 


Cousin Pons, 


“Listen to me,” he said aloud. “ Do you know what 
you ought to do ? ” 

“ I haf a peazenez achent.'* 

“Well, then, negotiate at once with the heirs. They 
will pay you a sum down and give you an annuity ; and 
then you can live in peace.” 

“ Beace — dat ees all I vant,” said Schmucke. 

“Very good! then let me arrange it for you,” said 
Gaudissard, to whom Fraisier had revealed his scheme 
the night before. 

It occurred to the Illustrious Gaudissard to ingra- 
tiate himself with the 3^oung Vicomtesse Popinot and 
her mother by getting them out of the dirt^^ affair, and 
thus forward his hopes of being councillor of state at 
some future day. 

“ I audorize you to achd for me.” 

“So be it! Now attend. In the first place,” said 
the Napoleon of the theatres, “here’s three hundred 
francs.” He took fifteen louis from his purse and gave 
ihem to Schmucke. “They are 3^ours ; they are six 
months’ advance on your salary: if you leave the 
theatre, wh}^ 3"Ou’ll pay them back to me. Now, let’s 
make an estimate. What do 3"Ou spend a year ? How 
much do 3"ou want to make you happy? Come now! 
consider ^^ourself a Sardanapalus ! ” 

“ I neet a zuit of gloaz for vinder, and anoder for 
zummaire.” 

“ Three hundred francs,” said Gaudissard. 

“ Poods, four bairs — ” 

“ Sixty francs.” 

“ Den bairs of zdoggins — ” 

“ Say twelve — thirty-six francs.” 


Cousin Pons, 


411 


“ Zigs jhirds — ” 

“ Six cotton shirts, twenty-four francs ; same of 
linen, forty-eight: seventy-two francs. Here we are, 
four hundred and sixty-eight — say five hundred, count- 
ing cravats and handkerchiefs ; a hundred more for 
washing, — six hundred francs. Now then, how much 
do you need to live on? three francs a day ? ” 

“ No, dad ees too mooch.” 

“ Stay, you must have hats ! Call it fifteen hundred, 
and five hundred for rent, — two thousand. Do you 
want me to get you an annuity of two thousand francs, 
good security?” 

“ Pud my dopaggo? ” 

“True; two thousand four hundred francs. Ha, 
ha ! papa Schmucke, so you call it tobacco ! Well, 
well ! we ’ll throw in the tobacco. Then it is to be two 
thousand four hundred francs annuity ? ” 

“No, dad ees nod all. I moost haf a zome town ; 
een gash — ” 

“ Pin-money ! the old Robert Macaire ! Those Ger- 
mans, are not they naive ! ” said Gaudissard to him-^ 
self. “Well, what do you want?” he said aloud; 
“ but remember, this must be the last item.” 

“ It ees to bay a zagret tett.” 

“A debt!” thought Gaudissard; “the old scamp! 
Why, he is worse than an eldest son ! He ’ll talk about 
notes-of-hand next ! I must pull him up short, for that 
Fraisier can’t see things on a grand scale — What 
sort of debt, my dear fellow? tell me.” 

“ Der ees a mann, der only mann dad mourned for 
Bons mit me : he has a breddy liddel cuH, mit hair dat 
ees magneefeezend ; she zeemed to me, joost now, laike 


412 


Cousin Pons. 


de Cheniuz of mein own Chermanny, — vich I oughd 
nefare, nefare to haf quiddet ; Paris ees no blace for 
Chermanns, dey ritigule dem here,” said Schmucke, 
with a little gesture of the head, signif3dng that he 
was a man who saw all things clearly in this lower 
world. 

“ He is mad,” thought Gaudissard. 

Moved to pit}" for the poor innocent, the director’s 
eyes filled with tears. 

“Ha! 3"ou unterzdant me, Monsir Cautizart! Veil, 
dat mann, who has de breddyliddel curl, ees Dobinard, 
who addends in de orgezdra und laights de lambs. 
Bons lofed heem and dook gare ov heems ; he vas de 
zole mann dad aggompaneet my frent — mein onl}- 
frent — to de jurch, to de zimedary, to hees cra-afe ! I 
moost haf dree douzant vrancs for heem, and dree 
douzant more for de liddel curl.” 

“ Poor man ! ” thought Gaudissard. 

The selfish parvenu was touched to the heart by 
such generous gratitude for a mere nothing, — nothing, 
as the world sees it, but to the e^'es of this divine 
lamb it outweighed, like Bossuet’s cup of water, all 
the victories of conquerors. Beneath his conceit and 
vanity, beneath a ruthless desire to force his wa}", and 
rise to the level of his old friend Popinot, Gaudissard 
hid a good heart and a kind nature. He at once 
effaced all his hasty impressions of Schmucke, and 
came over to his side. 

“ You shall have it all ; I will do my very best, my 
dear Schmucke. Topinard is an honest man.” 

“Yes, I haf joost zeen heem in his boor liddel home, 
where he is habby und gon-dend mit his jiltren.” 


Cousin Pons. 


413 


“I’ll give him the cashier’s place; old Baudrand is 
going to leave me.” 

“ Ha ! may Gott plez you ! ” 

“Well, my dear good man, come to Monsieur Ber- 
thier’s, the notary, at four o’clock this afternoon, and 
everything shall be settled ; you shall be at ease for the 
rest of your days. You shall receive your six thousand 
francs, and I ’ll give you the same salary under Garan- 
geot that you had under Pons.” 

“ No,” said Schmucke j “ I gan nod lif. Mein heart 
ees proken ; I am zdriggen town.” 

“Poor sheep!” said Gaudissard to himself as the 
German bowed and went away. “The world lives on 
cutlets ; in the words of our sublime B^ranger, — 

“ ‘ Poor sheep I forever sheared ! ’ ” 

And he sang that political sentiment to get rid of his 
emotion. 

“Call up my carriage,” he said to the attendant in 
the oflSce. 

Then he went down, and cried to the coachman, 
“ Rue de Hanovre ! ” The man of ambition was once 
more uppermost; he saw himself in the Council of 
State. 


414 


Comin Fom. 


XXXI 

CONCLUSION. 

SCHMUCKE was at that moment buying flowers, with 
which he returned almost joyously to the c^Ve-Bordin, 
bringing some cakes for the children of Topinard. 

“ I gif you zome gakes — ” he said with a smile. 

It was the flrst smile that had come to his lips for 
three months, and any one seeing it would have shud- 
dered. 

“ — Pud on one gondission,” he added. 

“ You are too good, monsieur,” said the mother. 

“De liddel curl moost giss me, und arranche de 
flowers een her hair joost laike de liddel Chermann 
curls.” 

“Olga, my daughter, do just what monsieur tells 
you,” said Madame Topinard, severely. 

“ Toan’d zgolt mein liddel fraulein,” cried Schmucke, 
who saw his own dear Germany in the little child. 

“The furniture is coming up on the backs of three 
porters,” cried Topinard, making his appearance. 

“Ah!” said the German, “Dobinard, my frent, 
here are doo hundert vrancs to bay for eet — You haf 
a goot vaife here, und you moost marry her. I gif ^nu 
dree dousant vrancs ; und de liddel curl, she vill haf a 
tode of dree dousant more, vich you moost bood een der 


CouBin Pons, 


415 


pank een her name — Und you are to pe gachier, in 
blace of Pautran ! ” 

“ I ! in place of Baudrand?” 

“Yez.” 

“ Who told you so? ” 

“ Monsir Cautizart.” 

“I shall go mad with joy! Hey, Rosalie! sha’n’t 
we carry our heads high at the theatre ? But it is n't 
possible ! ” he added. 

“Our benefactor mustn’t sleep in the loft,” said 
Madame Topinard. 

“ It toos ferry veil for de few tays I haf to lif,” said 
Schmucke. “It ees ferry goot. Atieu ; I co to de 
zimedary to zee vat has peen tone mit Bons, and to 
lay dese flowers on his cra-afe.’* 

Madame Camusot de Marville was a prey to anxiety. 
Fraisier held counsel with her, and with Godeschal and 
Berthier. Berthier, the notary, and Godeschal, the 
attorney, considered the wiU, made by two notaries in 
presence of two witnesses and drawn by Leopold 
Hannequin in the most precise and formal manner, as 
incontestable. According to the worthy Godeschal, 
Schmucke, even if his present counsellor managed to 
deceive him, would soon be enlightened, were it only by 
those attorneys who have recourse to acts of appar- 
ent generosity that are in reality speculations to obtain 
cases. The two ministerial lawyers quitted Madame de 
Marville, after strongly advising her to beware of Frai- 
sier, about whose character they had now informed 
themselves. At this moment Fraisier himself, who had 
gone to the rue de Hanovre after afl[ixing the seals in 


416 


Coudn PonB, 


Pons’s appartement, was writing out a legal summons 
in the president’s private room, where Madame de 
Marville had sent him, at the request of Godeschal and 
Berthier, who, thinking the transaction too foul for a 
judge to be mixed up in, wished to express that opinion 
to Madame de Marville without being heard by Fraisier. 

“Well, madame, where are those gentlemen?” said 
Fraisier, returning. 

“Gone; advising me to give up the affair,” an- 
swered Madame de Marville. 

“ Give it up ! ” cried Fraisier in a tone of suppressed 
anger. “Listen, madame.” And he read the follow- 
ing paper: — 

“ On the requisition of, etc., etc. (I omit the legal ver- 
biage.) 

“ Whereas, there has been deposited in the hands of the 
judge of the first civil court a will drawn by Maitre Leopold 
Hannequin and Alexandre Crottat, notaries of Paris, in 
presence of two witnesses, Messieurs Brunner and Schwab, 
foreigners domiciled in Paris, by the which will the Sieur 
Sylvain Pons, deceased, bequeaths his whole property to a 
Sieur Wilhelm Schmucke, to the prejudice of his natural and 
legal heir, the present complainant ; 

“ And whereas, the complainant is able to show that the 
said will is the work of undue influence, and the result of 
stratagems which are against the law; and that eminent 
personages are ready to prove that it was the intention of 
the testator to leave his fortune to Mademoiselle Cecile, 
daughter of the present complainant, the Sieur de Marville, 
and that the will, which the said complainant now asks may 
be set aside, was extorted from the testator when enfeebled 
and out of his right mind; 

“ And whereas, the Sieur Schmucke, for the purpose of 


Cousin Pons, 


417 


obtaining this legacy, kept the testator in durance, and 
prevented the family from approaching his death-bed, and 
after obtaining the said legacy was guilty of notorious 
ingratitude, which scandalized the household and the neigh- 
bors, who were present to pay the last duties to the door- 
keeper of the house in which the testator deceased ; 

“ And whereas, still other and more important facts, for 
the proofs of which the complainant is now seeking, will be 
laid before the court; 

“Therefore, I, the undersigned, etc., etc., summon the 
said Sieur Schmucke to appear before the judges of the said 
court, and show cause why the said will, drawn by Messieurs 
Hannequin and Crottat, shall not be regarded as null and of 
no effect. And I do,, moreover, protest against whatever 
powers and qualifications the Sieur Schmucke may assume 
as sole legatee, intending to oppose, and hereby opposing, by 
this petition presented this day before the court, the order of 
possession asked for by the said Sieur Schmucke, on whom a 
copy of this present summons has been served; of which the 
costs are, etc., etc.” 

“I know the man, madame, and when he has read 
that love-letter, he ’ll come to terms ; he will consult 
Tabareau, and Tabareau will tell him to accept our 
offers. You are willing to give him an annuity of three 
thousand francs?” 

“ Certainly ; I should be glad to pay the first instal- 
ment at once.” , 

“ It can all be settled in three days. This summons 
will startle him in the first bewilderment of his grief ; 
for the poor man really does regret Pons ; he has taken 
the loss seriously.” 

“If the summons is served, can it be withdrawn?’* 
asked Madame de Marville. 

27 


418 


Cousin Pons. 


“Certainly, madame ; we can always abandon the 
case.” 

“ Well, monsieur, then go on ; do as you think best. 
Yes, the property you offer me is worth the risk. Be- 
sides, I have arranged with Vitel, who will send in his 
resignation ; but you must pay the sixty thousand francs 
I have promised him out of the proceeds of the Pons 
estate. And so, you see, we positively must succeed.” 

“You have Vitel’s resignation in hand?” 

“Yes, monsieur; Monsieur Vitel has perfect confi- 
dence in Monsieur de Marville.” 

“Well, madame, I have already saved j^ou sixty 
thousand francs which we calculated to give to that 
vile creature Madame Cibot. But I must insist upon 
the tobacco-license for Madame Sauvage, and the va- 
cant place of surgeon-in-chief of the Quinze-Vingts.” 

“ That’s understood ; it is all arranged.” 

“ Very good ; then everything is settled. Everj^body 
is on your side in this affair, — even Gaudissard, the 
director of the theatre, whom I went to see yesterday, 
and who has promised to crush the man who warned 
Schmucke against us.” 

“Oh! I know why. Monsieur Gaudissard is de- 
voted to the Popinots.” 

Fraisier left the house. Unfortunately he did not 
meet Gaudissard, and the fatal summons was at once 
despatched. 

Money-loving people will understand, and honest 
people will execrate, Madame de Marville’s joy. 
Twenty minutes after Fraisier had left her, Gaudis- 
sard came to report his conversation with poor 
Schmucke. Madame de Marville approved of every- 


Cousin Pons. 


419 


thing, and was also infinitely obliged to the director 
for making certain remarks which eased her scruples, 
and which she thought eminently just. 

“Madame,” said Gaudissard, “I have been think- 
ing, as I came along, that this poor devil would never 
have known what to do with such a fortune. He ’s as 
simple as a patriarch ; innocent, truly German ; he 
ought to be kept in a glass-case like a little wax Jesus. 
In fact, it is my opinion that he is already embarrassed 
with his two-thousand-five-hundred-franc annuity ; you 
are really inciting him to dissipation.” 

“ It is the duty of noble hearts to benefit a man who 
regrets our cousin Pons,” said Madame de Marville. 
“I greatly deplore the little misunderstanding which 
parted Monsieur Pons and me ; if he had come back 
to us, all would have been forgiven: my husband 
really misses him. Monsieur de Marville was much 
distressed at receiving no notice of the death ; he has 
a truly religious reverence for all family duties, and he 
would certainly have attended the funeral and been 
present at the cemetery. I myself should have gone 
to the church.” 

“Well, madame,” said Gaudissard, “be so good as 
to have the deed prepared at once ; I ’ll bring the Ger- 
man to Berthier’s office at four o’clock. Present my 
respects to your charming daughter, the Vicomtesse 
Popinot ; ask her to say to my illustrious friend, her 
good and excellent father, that distinguished statesman, 
that I am heartily devoted to him and his, and that I 
beg him to continue his precious favor to me. I owe 
my life to his uncle, the judge, and I owe my fortune 
to him ; and I desire to obtain through you and your 


420 


Cousin Pons, 


daughter the respect and consideration which attach 
to those who hold honorable positions in life. I wish 
to leave the theatre and become an earnest man.” 

“ You are that already, monsieur,” said Madame de 
Marville. 

“Adorable!” exclaimed Gaudissard, kissing her 
lean hand. 

At four o’clock, Fraisier, the wire-puller of the whole 
transaction, Tabareau, holding Schmucke’s power of 
attorney, and Schmucke himself, brought by Gaudis- 
sard, were assembled in the office of Monsieur Berthier, 
notary. Fraisier had taken care to put bank-notes to 
the amount of six thousand francs, together with six 
hundred francs for the first instalment of the annuity, 
on the notary’s table under the eyes of the old German, 
who, amazed at the sight of so much money, paid not 
the slightest attention to the deed which was being 
read over to him. The poor soul, seized upon by Gau- 
dissard on his way back from the cemetery, where he 
had been talking with Pons and promising to rejoin 
him soon, was not in full possession of his faculties, 
shaken as they were by so many shocks. He therefore 
did not hear the preamble of the deed, in which he was 
represented as assisted by Maitre Tabareau, sherifi*, his 
proxy and counsel, and in which the charges contained 
in Monsieur de Marville’s summons in the interests of 
his daughter were stated. Schmucke was thus made 
to injure himself ; for by signing the deed, he admitted 
the truth of FraisieFs horrible assertions. But he was 
so oveijoyed at getting the money for the Topinard 
family, and so happy to enrich, according to his hum- 
ble ideas, the only man who loved Pons, that he did 


Cousin Pons, 


421 


not hear a single word relating to the Marville suit. 
While the deed was being read a clerk entered the 
oflSce. 

“ Monsieur,” he said to his employer, “ a man wishes 
to speak to Monsieur Schmucke.” 

The notary, at a sign from Fraisier, looked at the 
clerk significantly. 

“We can’t be disturbed when signing deeds. Ask 
the name of the — is he a man, or a gentleman? or a 
creditor ? ” 

The clerk went away, but soon returned, saying, — 

“ He says he positively musb speak to Monsieur 
Schmucke.” 

“His name?” 

“ Topinard.” 

“I’ll go and see him. Sign the deed,” said Gau- 
dissard ; “ finish what you are doing. I will find out 
what he wants.” 

Gaudissard understood Fraisier, and both scented 
danger. 

“What are you doing here?” said the director to 
his hireling. “ Don’t you want to be cashier? The 
first duty of a cashier is — discretion ! ” 

“ Monsieur ! ” 

“ Go about your business ! You ’ll never be anything 
at all if you stick your nose intb people’s affairs in this 
way.” 

“ Monsieur, I ’ll eat no bread if every crumb of it is 
to stick in my throat ! Monsieur Schmucke ! ” — he 
called out. 

Schmucke, who had signed the deed and held the 
money in his hand, came out on hearing Topinard’s cry 


422 


Cousin Pons. 


“ Here ees zomeding for de liddel Chermann, and for 
you — ” he said. 

“Ah! my dear Monsieur Schmucke, you have en- 
riched monsters ; these people have robbed you of 
your good name. Read that ; I ’ve carried it to an 
honorable man, a lawyer who knows that Fraisier, and 
he says you ought to punish such wickedness by meet- 
ing the suit, and that would frighten them, and they 
would give it up.” 

And this imprudent friend gave Schmucke the sum- 
mons, drawn up by Fraisier and approved by Madame 
de Marville, which had been left for the poor German 
at the cite Bordin. Schmucke took the paper and read 
it. The discovery of how he had been treated was his 
death-blow ; the gravel choked his heart. Topinard 
caught him in his arms ; they were standing under the 
notary’s porte-cochere. A coach passed; Topinard 
called to the driver and got into it with the poor Ger- 
man, who was now suffering the agony of a congestion 
of the brain. His sight was dim, but he still had 
strength to give the money to Topinard. Schmucke 
did not die under the first attack, but he never recov- 
ered his reason ; his movements were all unconscious ; 
he ate nothing, and died in ten days without uttering a 
complaint, for he never spoke again. He was nursed 
by Madame Topinard, and was buried in a humble 
way, side by side with Pons, under the directions of 
Topinard, the sole person who followed the poor stran- 
ger to his grave. 

Fraisier, appointed juge-de-paix, and very intimate 
in the household of Monsieur Camusot de Marville, is 
much appreciated by Madame de Marville, who has 


Cousin Pons, 


423 


not allowed him to marry “Tabareau’s daughter;*' 
she has promised something infinitely better than that 
to the clever man to whom she owes (according to her 
own sense of her obligations) not only the acquisition 
of the meadows around Marville and the charming 
cottage of the Englishman, but the political elevation 
of Monsieur de Marville, who became a deputy in the 
general election of 1846. 

Every one will doubtless wish to know what has be- 
come of the heroine of this history, — a history which, 
unfortunately, is only too true in all its details, and 
which, together with its predecessor (to which it bears 
the relation of a younger sister),^ proves that the grand 
social force is strength of character. You guess at 
once, O amateurs, connoisseurs, and dealers, that this 
heroine is none other than the collection of our poor 
Pons. It will suffice if we are present at a conversa- 
tion which took place at the house of Comte Popinot, 
who, only a few days ago, was showing his magnificent 
collection to certain foreigners. 

“ Monsieur le Comte,” said an Englishman of dis- 
tinction, “ you possess treasures ! ** 

“ Oh ! my lord,** said Comte Popinot, modestly, “ in 
the matter of pictures no one, I will not say in Paris, 
but in Europe, can pretend to rival an obscure indi- 
vidual, a Jew named 6lie Magus, an old picture-maniac, 
the chief of such fanatics. He has collected over a 
hundred pictures which are really enough to discourage 
all amateurs from attempting to collect. France will 
some day have to devote seven or eight millions to the 
1 CJousin Bette ; another volume of The Poor Relations. 


424 


Cousin Pons, 


purchase of this collection when the old Jew dies. As 
to curiosities, my collection is certainly fine enough to 
deserve mention.” 

“ How is it possible that a man so occupied as you 
are in public aflairs, and whose original fortune was 
honestly won in commercial pursuits — ” 

“ As a druggist,” said Popinot, “how is it that I 
care for these things?” 

“No,” replied the foreigner, “but how have you 
found time to search for them ? Curiosities do not come 
to us of themselves.” 

“ My father,” said the Vicomtesse Popinot, “ always 
had the nucleus of a collection ; he was fond of works 
of art and masterpieces. But the greater part of his 
collection came through me.” 

“Through you, madame? So young! Are 3 ’ou ad- 
dicted to these vices ? ” said a Russian prince. 

The Russians are such imitators that they reflect 
all the diseases of civilization. The bric-k-brac mania 
rages at St. Petersburg, and, as a result of the vigor 
natural to the Russian people, they have raised the 
price of what Remonencq called “that article” so 
high that the work of the collector is rendered wellnigh 
impossible. The prince was now in Paris for the sole 
purpose of adding to his collection. 

“Prince,” said the vicomtesse, “I inherited this 
treasure from a cousin who loved me much, and who 
spent more than forty years, from 1805, in picking up 
these works of art in all countries, but more especially 
in Italy.” 

“ What was his name? ” asked the Englishman. 

“ Pons,” said the president. 


Cousin Pons. 


425 


“ He was a charming man,” said Madame de Mai- 
ville, in her fluty little voice, ‘‘ full of wit, original, and 
with it all, he had a good heart. This fan which you 
admire, my lord, came from him ; he gave it me one 
morning with a pretty little speech which you must 
excuse my repeating.” 

And she glanced at her daughter. 

“ Tell us the pretty little speech, madame la vicom- 
tesse,” said the Russian prince. 

“ The speech is worthy of the fan ! ” said Cecile, — 
to whom, indeed, it was stereotyped. “ He told my 
mother that it was time the fan should pass from the 
hands of vice into those of virtue.” 

The English lord looked at Madame de Marville with 
an air of doubt that was extremely flattering to so 
shrivelled a woman. 

“ He dined with us three or four times a week,” she 
said; “he loved us so much! We knew how to aj> 
predate him, and artists like those who share their 
tastes. My husband was his only relation ; and when 
the property came to us (Monsieur de Marville did not 
in the least expect it) , Monsieur le Comte Popinot pre- 
ferred to buy the whole collection rather than have it 
sold at auction. Of course we were glad to part with it 
in that way ; it would have been extremely painful to 
see all these beautiful things which our dear cousin had 
so enjoyed, dispersed in everj" direction : £lie Magus 
appraised them. And it was thus, my lord, that I was 
able to buy the cottage built by your uncle, where you 
must do us the honor to come and see us.” 

The cashier of the theatre, of which Gaudissard re- 
signed the directorship about a year ago, is still Mon- 


426 


Cousin Pons, 


sieur Topinard; but Monsieur Topinard has become 
gloomy, misanthropical, and taciturn. He is thought 
to have committed some crime, and the wits of the 
theatre declare that the change came after he married 
Lolotte. The name of Fraisier makes him start. Per- 
haps the reader may think it strange that the only being 
worthy of Pons should be found on the third floor of a 
boulevard theatre. 

Madame Remonencq, mindful of the prediction of 
Madame Fontaine, is unwilling to retire into the coun- 
try ; she still remains in her splendid shop on the 
boulevard de la Madeleine, once more a widow. The 
Auvergnat, having so arranged the marriage contract 
that the survivor should inherit the whole property, left 
a little glass of vitriol within reach of his wife, expect- 
ing an accident ; and his wife having, with the best 
intentions, placed the little glass elsewhere, Remonencq 
swallowed the poison. This end, worthy of such a vil- 
lain, teUs in favor of Providence, whom the painters 
of manners and morals are accused of forgetting, — 
possibly because the endings of so many dramas put 
Providence in the wrong. 



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